Lack of Color
by girloficeandfire
Summary: AU in which Sandor doesn't desert during the Battle of the Blackwater; but he doesn't know about Sansa being forced to marry Tyrion until it happens. Joffrey then trolls and plots and insists that Sandor guard his uncle and new good-aunt...
1. Prologue

**DISCLAIMER: Sadly, I own none of this, so of course I'm only writing it for fun :) **

_Inspired by a prompt in a sansaxsandor LJ community commentfic activity:_

_"Sandor doesn't desert but doesn't know about the Sansa/Tyrion marriage until it's there. Joff, trolling and plotting, assigns Sandor to spy on/ 'guard' his beloved uncle and good-aunt."_

_And also somewhat inspired by Death Cab's song "A Lack of Color", especially these lyrics:_

__"When I see you, I really see you upside down...but my brain knows better; it picks you up and turns you around...turns you around...If you feel discouraged that there's a lack of color here...please don't worry lover, it's really bursting at the seams...This is fact not fiction, for the first time in years...I know it's too late...I should have given you a reason to stay...Given you a reason to stay...a reason to stay..."__

**SANDOR**

He still woke in cold sweats from nightmares of green wildfire, and he was beginning to wonder if he in fact uttered the screams he heard as he tossed and turned in his sleep.

_I should have left when I had the chance._

Knowing this didn't do Sandor any good, though. He'd thought about well and truly deserting, but then...

_Then Sansa fucking Stark happened._

Thank the seven buggering gods no one else knew what he'd done. How he'd drunk himself into a stupor and stumbled to her room. How he'd found it empty and collapsed into her bed, breathing in the sweet feminine scent of her and gulping down Dornish Red until he passed out...only to be woken when she returned and tore open the drapes to reveal the glowing greens and oranges of the fires blazing in and around King's Landing.

He'd offered to take her with him, though he knew she'd refuse, and then he'd hated himself for offering at all and held a dagger to her throat and demanded a song. She'd complied, the pretty little singing bird, always doing what was expected of her...but it wasn't Florian and Jonquil or some other drivel as he'd expected. Instead she'd sung the Mother's Hymn, and her quavering voice and the memories of the wildfire burning around him and the wine had all mixed together and gone to his head and then...

_The tears._

Sandor was certain he'd been a child the last time he'd cried; he'd learned at a very young age that crying was not welcome in the Clegane household, especially if Gregor was around to beat the feeling out of you.

_Beat it, burn it...what's the difference?_

What he'd not expected that night was for Sansa fucking Stark to reach up and caress his cheek. But she had, _she had_, she'd touched him of her own free will, and he'd pressed his cheek into her small soft palm and murmured, "Little bird."

When Sandor had opened his eyes that night, he saw Sansa Stark, pale with fright, staring directly at him.

_Of her own free will._

They looked at each other for a moment, two, three. "I can't go with you," she said, and she sounded almost...sad.

"I know," he admitted.

"Please stay," she'd requested.

And he had. He had let that girl take his hand and show him to his chambers, his bare little room. She'd watched him collapse into bed - his own, this time - and then she was gone, and at times he wondered if she'd ever accompanied him in the first place.

Surprisingly, not much had changed after that night. Sandor had feared that he would be labeled a deserter and face the required punishment - but then, the only ones who'd seen him leave the battle were a handful of sell swords, Ser Mandon Moore, and Tyrion Lannister and his squire Podrick Payne. Most of the sellswords were dead or missing; Ser Mandon Moore certainly wasn't coming back. Podrick Payne was a stammering idiot and Tyrion lay dying in the Red Keep. When the Imp awoke and found that Sandor was still there, still alive, still a member of the Kingsguard, he'd pitched a buggering fit...but Joff had merely laughed.

"My uncle says you ran from the fire, dog," Joffrey accused, the look in his eyes gleeful, no menace to it at all. "He says you should be labeled a deserter," the little bastard pushed.

"If it please you," Sandor said with a shrug.

"Even if you did run, it pleases me more to keep you around just to vex him," Joffrey said.

Despite his calm demeanor, Sandor was seething inside. He'd never liked Tyrion Lannister and hated him even more for making him feel a coward for running from the wildfire, but the fact that the buggering dwarf - _the Seven take him_- woke from a fortnight of fevered dreaming to immediately accuse Sandor of desertion...

_If he only knew. I should have left, should have left and taken the little bird with me. Or should have raped her bloody, ruined her for Joffrey, and left on my own. _

If it was going to be put about that Sandor Clegane was a deserter, his only regret was that he hadn't done the deserting properly.

What he _could _do properly, however, was avoid Sansa Stark. He felt her watching him whenever they were in the same space, and he remembered the feel of her hand on his unscarred cheek, how her bed had smelled as pretty as she did, how she'd lingered in the doorway to his chamber for several moments after he'd fallen into his bed.

_She will be the death of you, dog._

If he was to keep his senses, he must keep away from her. Sansa _fucking_ Stark.

**SANSA**

She ought to have known that the Battle of the Blackwater would give her nightmares; what she did not understand was why they so often focused on her finding the Hound in her bed. In her dreams she sometimes agreed to go with him, or if she didn't he would often pin her to the bed and press his ruined lips to her own, silencing her cries with a cruel kiss.

He seemed to be avoiding her. Whereas before the battle she had often had the impression that the Hound sought her out, now she only ever saw him at Joffrey's side. She found she almost missed him being the one sent to fetch her for Joffrey, even almost missed stumbling upon his drunken self in the passages of the Red Keep. When Sansa had asked him to stay, she'd thought he would understand that she meant _for her_...and she had been so worried that he would flee anyway that she had taken him back to his chambers herself, watched as he lay down in his bed, and even when she left the room and shut the door behind her she had stayed just outside in the passage until she heard his drunken snoring. Proof that he was asleep, and she'd hoped as she went back to her own bedchamber that when the Hound woke in the morning - sober, alive, still in King's Landing - he would not think about leaving again.

And he'd been there the next day, and the day after that, and the one after that. Never looking at her, though. Never speaking to her. But there, nonetheless.

When Margaery arrived and Sansa met the new future queen, her ladies in waiting and her snippy little grandmother, Sansa found herself thinking _I need the Hound's brutal honesty right now_. He would probably tell her not to trust these people. Maybe he'd known Willas, and if he had he'd tell her how that man was, tell her the harsh truths she needed to hear.

But he was never there, never around, and then Cersei came to Sansa's chambers one morning with a new gown and a maiden's cloak and told her that she was to marry the Imp. For some reason the Hound's face flashed before her, but she had to tell herself _He can't help you now. He _wouldn't_ help you now. He's the Lannister dog, and the Imp is a Lannister._

Tyrion had been kind to her, after all. He wasn't so bad as the rest of them. But then she was at the door to the sept and Joffrey was there and he was wearing Lannister red and gold and saying he would act the part of her father and though Sansa felt she would be sick she heard herself begging the king to not force this marriage on her, though she knew even then that it was the wrong thing to say.

She was trapped.

_Trapped._

A lone wolf surrounded by a pride of lions.


	2. Sandor

**DISCLAIMER: Sadly, I own none of this, so of course I'm only writing it for fun :) **

_Inspired by a prompt in a sansaxsandor LJ community commentfic activity:_

_"Sandor doesn't desert but doesn't know about the Sansa/Tyrion marriage until it's there. Joff, trolling and plotting, assigns Sandor to spy on/ 'guard' his beloved uncle and good-aunt."_

_And also somewhat inspired by Death Cab's song "A Lack of Color", especially these lyrics:_

_"When I see you, I really see you upside down...but my brain knows better; it picks you up and turns you around...turns you around...If you feel discouraged that there's a lack of color here...please don't worry lover, it's really bursting at the seams...This is fact not fiction, for the first time in years...I know it's too late...I should have given you a reason to stay...Given you a reason to stay...a reason to stay..."_

* * *

><p>"Best wear your good doublet tomorrow, dog," Joffrey had hinted the day before. Sandor had not a clue what the little brat was speaking of; so far as he knew the next day was to be just another normal day at court.<p>

He should have known that the mean little smile on the king's face portended something like this.

_But how _could_ you have known_? _This is an abominable farce, even by Lannister standards._

Sandor was seething with anger, and had been since he'd arrived in the throne room that morning and been told by a gleeful Joffrey that they were going to a wedding. "I'd rather not," Sandor had grunted, assuming that it was likely that fool Lollys Stokeworth finally being married off, quickly and quietly before she could give birth to that bastard in her belly.

"You'll go," Joffrey snapped, then collected himself long enough to admit, "It's my uncle's wedding, in fact. Uncle Tyrion, of course. I know how you favor him, dog, and I thought you would enjoy his humiliation."

Sandor's lip curled at Joffrey's pathetic jape. The boy had always known that Sandor despised the Imp, but the proof, so they say, was in the pudding these days. _Since that buggering Battle._"Humiliation?" he forced through gritted teeth. "Who's the Imp to wed, then?"

"Why, my former betrothed. Daughter of one traitor, sister to another, forced to marry my hideous little dwarf of an uncle because I cast her aside!" Joffrey cackled.

And Sandor Clegane saw red.

* * *

><p>Cersei led Sansa Stark from her rooms, and Sandor was forced to meet them outside the tower with Meryn Trant. The little bird was paler than the ivory gown she wore, yet despite this, despite the stricken look on her face, she was still the most beautiful creature Sandor had ever seen. She walked stiffly, proof that she was being forced into this, yet she stood tall in her maiden's cloak. Grey was such a plain color - he wore it often himself for that very reason - but on her it simply <em>belonged<em>. The moonstones around her neck - a gift from Joffrey, he seemed to remember - seemed to glow, and though some would say that_ she_ was reflecting _their _beauty, Sandor knew it to be the other way around.

_And the Imp will have her now, the filthy little dwarf. Why didn't I drag her off when I had the chance?_

He knew why he hadn't. Because he couldn't force her. Because she sang for him. Because for all her nonsensical little chirps, there was wolf in her as well. Because she didn't belong to him, and she certainly never would. Because he was Sandor Clegane, the Hound, the Lannister dog, and she was Sansa _fucking_ Stark.

Though within the hour she wouldn't be a Stark anymore, but a Lannister.

Somehow, realizing this made him feel even worse.

They were crossing the yard when the little bird looked up at him, caught him watching her, and when their eyes met it seemed that she was _pleading_ with him. _There's nothing i can do for you just now_, he thought, tearing his gaze from hers as they marched forward to meet Joffrey in front of the sept. "I'm your father today," the king announced.

Sandor could practically feel the little bird's body coil tight in anger and was almost amused enough to grin at Joffrey's presumptuous mistake when she snapped, "You're not. You'll never be." Sandor _would_ have grinned, in fact, if it hadn't been just as big of a mistake for Sansa to respond in such a manner. Joffrey glared at her.

"Oh yes, I'm your father, and you'll marry whoever I tell you to marry. You'll marry the Hound here if I say so, and I'll give you a chamber in the kennels. He can bed you there and you'll whelp him a dozen ugly pups if I order it. Or perhaps you'd rather be given to Ser Ilyn Payne? I can arrange that as well."

Both of these options were empty threats, Sandor knew, yet he felt his stomach lurch when Sansa looked to him again, her eyes wide with what he assumed was fear. He may be a better option than Ilyn Payne, but even Tyrion Lannister must be preferable to Joffrey's dog. This time he did not look away, but kept his gaze stony and cold until she turned back to Joffrey and begged, "Please, Your Grace, if you ever loved me, do not make me marry your uncle."

Before Joffrey could answer the Imp himself came through the door of the sept and asked for a moment with his wife-to-be. Joffrey beckoned to Sandor and as usual he obeyed and followed the boy as Joffrey moved off to the side with Cersei. It took all of Sandor's self control to not look back at Tyrion and Sansa, but thankfully the king distracted him. "Did you see the way she looked at you, dog?" Joffrey laughed. "She's more afraid of you than she is of my hideous little uncle. I wonder..."

"You wonder what, my dear?" Cersei piped in, her ton wary. Apparently she liked the direction of this conversation even less than Sandor himself did.

"Nothing, mother," Joffrey simpered. "Just a little jape that I have in mind. It only concerns the Hound, anyway, and he'll do as I ask, won't you, dog?"

Knowing this must somehow involve the little bird, but _not _knowing exactly how, part of Sandor wanted to say no. But of course he couldn't do so, especially not now as he was still sure to be walking on thin ice thanks to the Battle of the Blackwater and the thrice-damned Imp. "Aye," Sandor grunted, but there the conversation ended - Tyrion and Sansa had entered the sept and Joffrey's presence was required.

The anger that had been burning inside of Sandor all day was only fed by the wedding ceremony. As always the little bird did as she was expected, chirping out the songs and vows required of her while tears streamed silently down her face. _Who are you angry with, you buggering fool?_ Sandor asked himself. With Joffrey, for tossing away a girl he'd never wanted, shaming her and then allowing her to be married to his own _uncle_? Or was his anger directed at the Imp? If so, was it because he was forcing Sansa Stark to marry him though she was but a girl, or was it because he would have her now when Sandor had wanted her for so long? Or was he mad at her, at the little bird, for not putting up more of a fight?

Only when they came to the changing of the cloaks did the wolf inside Sansa Stark rear its brave little head. The Imp was quite a bit shorter than she, he being a dwarf and Sansa being in fact quite tall for her age - yet he had no step stool and she refused to kneel. It ended with Joffrey calling the fool Dontos to boost the Imp up to Sansa's level, and for a moment Sandor felt what must have been a surge of pride in her, that she'd stood up for herself...even in such a small way. But when she had to turn and face Tyrion, Sandor saw something in her change, soften, and this time she did kneel, knelt to pledge her love with a kiss. _Love_, Sandor thought, scoffing to a farce it all was - there was no love in this match, not with the little bird being passed around the Lannister clan like a piece of property.

He had to turn his head away when Sansa's lips met the Imp's in the kiss that sealed their marriage.

* * *

><p>Once the new bride and groom and their guests were settled in the Small Hall for the wedding feast, Sandor himself settled in to drink. He stood in the shadows not far behind Joffrey, where no one would be able to see him, and watched Sansa Stark - <em>no, Lannister now<em>- and her new husband. The Imp seemed to be in about the same mood that Sandor was in - he ate little while drowning himself in goblet after goblet of wine, and Sandor found himself thinking that if he'd just had the opportunity to wed the little bird he wouldn't touch a drop of drink. The bedding being the reason for that, of course, but as soon as that thought came to his mind all Sandor could picture was the Imp bedding her. His stomach turned and he lowered his own wine goblet, but he still couldn't take his eyes off of Sansa Stark.

When the musicians began to play Sandor saw Sansa touch Tyrion's hand and speak to him. The Imp grimaced - _gods, he's as ugly as I am_, Sandor thought, almost chuckling at the realization - and said something in reply that caused the little bird to pull her hand away and then watch wistfully as the king and his new betrothed took to the floor for a dance. Others followed, but Sansa and Tyrion remained in their seats - which, considering the little bird's love of music and all things courtly, took Sandor by surprise. Apparently the Imp did not care one way or another about pleasing his new wife...

It was Garlan Tyrell who finally stepped forward to invite Sansa to dance, and for a short time she was smiling - at Garlan himself, then at fat old Mace Tyrell, and several others - until it was Joffrey's turn. In the few moments that their dance lasted, whatever the little brat said to Sansa wiped the almost-happy look off of her face and caused her to move like a stiff old woman for the rest of the dance. A hot, prickly anger surged through Sandor then, but what could he possibly do about it? About _any_ of it?

_The same thing you've always done. Not enough. Next to nothing, in fact._

Joffrey's shout broke Sandor's reverie. "I think my uncle and new good-aunt have had quite enough food and drink and dancing for now," the king announced, "but before we bed them" - here he was interrupted by several hoots and whistles - "I feel it is my duty to give them a wedding gift. Uncle, Sansa?" He gestured that they should come out from behind their table, and though the little bird and the Imp shared a worried glance, they did obey.

Somehow Sandor knew that this could not end well, but even _he_ was shocked by Joffrey's next words.

"We all know that my Uncle Tyrion has taken some unsavory guards of late, but now that he is wed to a great Lady" - here the mix of contempt and amusement in Joff's voice was so obvious that a hush fell over the four dozen or so wedding guests - "I believe he needs - _they _need - some proper protection. Dog!"

Sandor stepped forward automatically, his body moving of its own will while his mind was in a turmoil. _What in the seven hells does the little shit have planned?_ he thought, remembering Joffrey's comments to his mother earlier that day. _"Did you see the way she looked at you? She's more afraid of you than my uncle...Nothing, mother, just a jape that concerns the Hound..._"

"What are you about, Joffrey?" the Imp muttered.

"_Your grace,_" the king reminded his uncle, the words an angry hiss spilling from Joffrey's mouth before he pasted a smile on his face and gestured to Sandor. "The Hound has been my loyal guard for quite some time now...so loyal that I raised him to my Kingsguard in place of that old fool Selmy. My gift to you, uncle, is that the Hound will watch over you and my dear Lady Sansa for as long as you remain in King's Landing."

"_Your grace_," the Imp repeated Joffrey's admonition with rancor in his tone, "I assure you that this...gift...is unnecessary."

Sandor felt that he couldn't agree more. He'd been doing a good job of it, avoiding the little bird since the Battle, and now this?_ If there are gods, they are punishing you_. But when he glanced at Sansa he saw that she was looking at him as well. Though she immediately looked away, he had already seen that there was no fear in her eyes, but rather a sort of..._hope_, mayhaps?

"And I assure you, _Uncle_," Joffrey was saying through gritted teeth, "that it is completely necessary. The Hound is quite the obedient guard. He'll stand at your door day and night as I'll order him to do, and he'll do anything you ask of him outside of that as well. Won't you, Hound?"

_Would he?_ What if Tyrion ordered him to beat the little bird? The one time Joffrey had done so, that fool Dontos had saved Sandor from having to disobey, and if Sandor had nearly disobeyed Joffrey...the _king_..._Cersei's_ son...who was to say that he would obey the Imp, should he give a similar command? Sandor gave a noncommittal grunt, and thankfully it seemed to serve well enough, for Joffrey gave a brusque nod and said, "There, see? Your new assignment begins now, dog. Tonight you'll stand guard outside the newlyweds' chambers. And now that that's done, it's time to bed them! Let's get the clothes off the she-wolf and see what she has to offer my uncle!"

Again Sandor couldn't help but focus on Sansa Stark, who looked terrified at the very thought of being stripped down by the men present, the men who were hooting and hollering for the bedding.

The Imp, for some unknown reason, put a stop to the ruckus with a few choice words. "I'll have no bedding."

Joffrey took hold of Sansa's arm and sneered at his Uncle. "You will if I command it."

When Tyrion Lannister reached down and pulled his dagger from its sheath, Sandor nearly hated himself for his immediate reaction - that being to step forward, hand on sword hilt, ready to protect the king. _My master,_he thought with disgust. But the Imp merely made an empty threat about gelding Joffrey, and the situation was quickly taken into hand by Tywin Lannister.

And then Sansa Stark was taken into hand by Tyrion. The Imp grabbed her roughly and Sandor trembled with rage when the little bird's face flushed red.

"Follow them, dog!" Joffrey ordered, and this time Sandor happily obeyed. The Imp turned and regarded him with narrow eyes, but Sandor merely shrugged.

"King's orders," he rasped, glancing yet again at Sansa Stark. Was it his imagination, or did the corner of her mouth twitch up into something like a _smile_?

He kept his distance from the little bird and her new husband as they made for the chamber in the Tower of the Hand that had been granted to Tyrion Lannister for his wedding night. Not for the girl, no - traitor's daughter, traitor's sister that she was, about to lose her maidenhead to a dwarf that had been forced upon her. _Seven hells, she's a child,_ Sandor reminded himself. Did Sansa Stark even know what happened on a wedding night? Would the Imp be gentle, and even if he was, would that matter at all to _her_? Sandor's hand clenched over the hilt of his sword. _One quick cut, that's all it would take..._

When they reached the door to the wedding chamber, Tyrion whipped around and snapped, "I'll thank you to keep your distance, _dog_. I may have to suffer your presence, but I won't have you listening outside the door while I bed my pretty new wife."

The little bird was visibly trembling and Sandor could practically _feel_ his knuckles go white as he gripped his sword hilt even harder. But he forced himself to nod his acknowledgement, and then they were through the door and out of sight.

Sandor couldn't help himself, though. He tried to avoid approaching the door, truly he did - but he had to know. Fuck, he'd failed the little bird so many times...he'd never be able to live with himself if he failed her in this, as well.

But when he inched closer and leaned toward the door to listen, Sandor heard...nothing. In fact he leaned against the wall all night, but he never heard the creaking of the bed or the Imp's grunts of pleasure or Sansa Stark's cries of pain as the dwarf broke her seal...was it possible that the little bird had refused Tyrion Lannister, possible that if she'd done so he didn't force himself on her?

Dare he believe that the Imp could be so...so..._honorable_?


	3. Sansa

_I've been insanely bad about thanking everyone for the wonderful reviews! I'm glad so many seem to be enjoying this vastly different AU prompt/response. Please continue to share your thoughts with me, as I absolutely appreciate every comment/review :)_

**DISCLAIMER: Sadly, I own none of this, so of course I'm only writing it for fun :) **

_Inspired by a prompt in a sansaxsandor LJ community commentfic activity:_

_"Sandor doesn't desert but doesn't know about the Sansa/Tyrion marriage until it's there. Joff, trolling and plotting, assigns Sandor to spy on/ 'guard' his beloved uncle and good-aunt."_

_And also somewhat inspired by Death Cab's song "A Lack of Color", especially these lyrics:_

_"When I see you, I really see you upside down...but my brain knows better; it picks you up and turns you around...turns you around...If you feel discouraged that there's a lack of color here...please don't worry lover, it's really bursting at the seams...This is fact not fiction, for the first time in years...I know it's too late...I should have given you a reason to stay...Given you a reason to stay...a reason to stay..."_

* * *

><p>She felt a bit bad for her husband...but just a bit. She knew that half the Red Keep was sniggering behind his back, because somehow - the gods only knew how - everyone seemed to know that Sansa Stark Lannister was still a maiden. She'd not told anyone, but mayhaps Tyrion Lannister trusted where she did not, and had mentioned his fit of gallantry - or his disappointment - to someone.<p>

Though in a way she was safer married to Tyrion than she'd been on her own, Sansa could not help but feel miserable. Her husband had insisted that she wear a nightshift in bed, yet still she cringed when she lay down beside him, still she woke up in the middle of the night worrying that he would touch her. It seemed that he wanted to make her happy, but he'd never truly understood her. Even when he'd stopped Ser Boros from beating her after the battle at Oxcross, she'd known that for all his kind words he was still a Lannister, still a lion. _And lions do not understand wolves. _If Tyrion had truly wanted to do her good, Lannister would have refused to marry her and then refused to allow them to pass her off on Lancel; he would have sent her home to her family..

And the more Sansa brooded on these things, the angrier she became. Not to mention the fact that she'd thought having the Hound around would make things better, when truly it hadn't made much difference at all...unless...perhaps his presence did discourage Tyrion from finally...

Sansa shuddered at the mere thought of it. If the gods were with her she would never have to lie with Tyrion Lannister, not truly. She still met with Ser Dontos in the godswood whenever possible, and though he tried to give her sloppy kisses and was often messily drunk, he was still promising to take her away from here. It was something to live for, really, when nothing else seemed worthwhile.

Until one night her husband offered to accompany her, so that she may 'enlighten him' in regards to the old gods. For a moment panic gripped at Sansa, and for some reason she found herself searching out Sandor Clegane, who stood against the wall with Tyrion's squire Podrick Payne. When their eyes met the Hound cocked an eyebrow at Sansa and forced her to be the one to break the contact, as she thanked Tyrion for his offer but did her best to discourage his coming with her.

_Surely he will see through me_, she thought desperately - but no, her husband actually smiled, agreed that he would probably find the godswood boring, and told her to dress warmly.

All the while, she could feel the Hound's heavy stare.

* * *

><p>Sansa hadn't been able to get away from the dinner table - and from Tyrion - fast enough. In her rush to escape she did not hear the sound of footsteps behind her, and she had almost reached the godswood when she felt a large, heavy hand on her shoulder.<p>

"Off to the godswood again, little bird?" the Hound rasped. Sansa trembled in his grip, but forced herself to nod. "And in a mighty hurry," he mused as he looked down at her. "You shouldn't be wandering the Red Keep by yourself, you know. Your Imp may not think twice about it, but I think I'll come with you while you pray. Just in case."

_No, he musn't, he _mustn't_...if he finds out about Ser Dontos..._ Sansa couldn't stop her eyes from flicking toward the godswood, wondering if the fool was already waiting for her, wondering why, after weeks of silence, Sandor Clegane was insisting on confronting her _now_. "I...I'd rather go alone," she whispered.

He scoffed at her. "I'm sure you would, girl, but as I've been ordered to keep an eye on you and your husband by the king himself, I'm going with you. Whether you like it or no."

At this point Sansa could only hope that Ser Dontos would either hear them coming and leave, or catch sight of the Hound upon his arrival and not come to her at all. _Wishful thinking_, she knew.

Somehow, though, things worked out in her favor. When they entered the godswood and Sansa approached the spot where she usually met with Ser Dontos, the man himself was sitting on the ground with his back to a tree, nearly-empty wineskin in hand and drool pooling at the corners of his lips. Sandor kicked the fool right in the ribs, startling Dontos awake, and as the former knight spluttered and struggled to rise to his feet, casting his eyes about until they settled on Sansa, the Hound ordered, "Get out of here, you damned fool. The Lady Sansa has come to pray."

Ser Dontos looked panicked and unsure as Sandor wrapped one of his huge hands in the other man's cloak and lifted him bodily to his feet. Sansa could only give him a quick nod, staring at him with wide eyes and praying that he would listen.

He did, and soon she and Sandor Clegane were alone again. "You didn't have to be so rough with him," she said, avoiding the Hound's eyes. _Gods, why does it always feel as if he is looking right through me..._

The Hound laughed at her. "Still so courteous, little bird. I would have thought the Imp would fuck some of that out of you, but if I hear the truth of it he hasn't fucked you at all. Yet."

_Yet._That word frightened Sansa more than Sandor Clegane ever had, for he had the right of it, of course. Tyrion Lannister had been kind to her so far, but how long would - or could - that truly last? He'd said he'd not touch her until she wanted him to, but the look in his eyes when she'd asked, "And if I never want you to, my lord?" had scared her near as much as his nakedness, that night.

"Tyrion has treated me with honor," Sansa heard herself drone.

"Still saying what others want to hear, rather than what you truly mean," the Hound snarled. "But for whatever reason, it's the truth. Though I'm as surprised as anyone else. Tyrion Lannister is not known for his fits of gallantry."

"All the same," she shrugged. _Please stop speaking to me of Tyrion, please, _please...

"Go about your prayers, girl." With that Sandor Clegane found himself a place to sit, and did so silently, apparently waiting for her to begin her prayers...but as Sansa hadn't truly come here for those, she didn't even know where to start just now. She knelt on the ground, closed her eyes, and decided to silently thank the gods that she and Ser Dontos hadn't been discovered, that her maidenhead was still intact, that -

Sansa opened her eyes and whipped her head around. She could _feel_ him watching her; it made her uncomfortable. Sure enough, when she faced the Hound he was staring at her, the scarred corner of his mouth twitching. She wanted to look away - his scars still frightened her a bit, and Sansa had to remind herself of his tears, remind herself that he'd never harmed her. "You do not have to wait for me," she finally murmured.

"What, and leave you here in case Dontos or some other arse comes around?

"Ser Dontos is harmless."

Sandor Clegane leveled his gaze on her, and in his eyes was pity, and even something like concern. "Have you learned nothing, little bird?"

_I've learned plenty_, she wanted to scream. _I trust no one. You told me that they were all liars yourself, or don't you remember? But you've done nothing for me, and Ser Dontos...Ser Dontos is my only hope._

Instead she stood and brushed off her skirts. "I'm done here." Sansa focused her eyes on the ground and made to move past the Hound - but then his hand was on her shoulder again, stopping her. When she looked up at him, though, he obviously didn't know what to say. "Yes, _Ser_?" she inquired. His hand pinched her, almost painfully, for a moment.

"I stayed for you," he finally admitted.

Sansa reached up and covered his hand with hers. "I know," she sighed. For a long moment they stood there, and when he tried to remove his hand she pressed down on it, remembering her dreams of him kissing her, dreams that she'd had so many times she'd lost track of whether his lips on hers was something she'd imagined. During her wedding to the Imp, when she'd had to kneel to kiss _him_, she'd recalled the Hound and _his_face close to hers...and the realization had come to her that Tyrion Lannister was even uglier than Sandor Clegane. Her wedding kiss had been brief, a mere brush of Tyrion's lips against hers, yet when it had happened Sansa had recalled the kiss in her dreams, the kiss from the night of the battle, and for a moment, one short moment of insanity, she'd nearly wished it was the Hound there at the altar with her.

_Maybe...if it happens again..._

As if she is dreaming _right now_, she turns toward Sandor Clegane then, turns so that her body faces his - entirely, completely, so that she is standing in his shadow...and yet she has never felt so safe, never felt so warm, as she wraps her fingers around his hand and takes it gently from her shoulder. He looks as if he might say something, _wants _to say something, but Sansa doesn't let him. She presses her free hand to the back of his neck, drawing his head down toward hers, and though there is no logical reason for it he yields to the little strength that she has.

Their lips meet, and it is nothing like she remembered it...and everything. The pressure is firm, because he is strong, but it is not _cruel_. The unscarred side of his mouth is curiously smooth and soft, while the ruined side is rough and scratchy. Sansa thinks about a day so long ago, when Jeyne Poole came giggling to her rooms, talking of kissing Theon Greyjoy. At the time Sansa had wondered why, thought _she shouldn't have done that_, but now she's glad to recall that conversation, as she tentatively runs her tongue across the part of Sandor Clegane's lips in the way Jeyne once described to her.

And he opens for her; not only that, he reaches around and presses his hands into her shoulder blades, bringing their bodies flush against each other - and within moments of the kiss becoming..._more_...she feels his manhood stiffen in his breeches, feels it against her stomach...but instead of doing the _right _thing Sansa arches herself into him, a sigh escaping from her, unbidden, flowing into his mouth and apparently giving him all the encouragement he needs to continue. For he fairly lifts her feet off the ground, kissing her with renewed vigor...

Abruptly, he lets her go, practically shoving her away from him as he sets her back on the ground. "We can't do this, little bird," he rasps, and then she is back in King's Landing, back in the Red Keep, back in the godswood, married to Tyrion Lannister and kissing _the Hound_.

"No...we...we shouldn't..." Sansa stuttered, all the while knowing that even if they shouldn't, she _wanted_ to, _gods_, she wanted to, though she had no idea _why_.

"Come," Sandor Clegane rasped, his voice for some reason sounding far more hoarse than usual. "I'll take you back to your chambers." He placed a hand on the small of her back to propel her forward, and though she wanted to lean into his touch, wanted to tell him to stop, tell him that she wanted to stay _here_, instead Sansa allowed him to return her to the rooms she shared with Tyrion Lannister. _My husband,_she thought with disgust, glancing up at the Hound and musing over how his hideously scarred face and hulking form were somehow less fearsome to her than the Imp's stunted body, mismatched eyes, and lack of a proper nose.

_What does it matter? Ser Dontos will take me away from here and hopefully I will never have to see Tyrion Lannister again. Nor am I like to see the Hound again, either, if I leave._

But suddenly that thought didn't seem quite so captivating as it once had.


	4. Sandor II

**Hi all! First, thank you for all of the reviews! They are VERY much appreciated and for anyone who hasn't reviewed yet or wants to leave another one...I won't argue with it if you do ;)  
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**So, normally I'm *way* better about updating my fics fairly quickly, but real life has unfortunately been a bit overwhelming and on top of that I wanted to finish my SanSan/Lady & the Tramp mashup because it was for a charity auction and someone bid on it. So it took precedence over this one. I can't promise that updates will start coming a LOT faster (especially as I'm about to go out of town for over a week, with no internet access) but this fic isn't done yet and I will continue it, promise! I'm actually not quite sure how long it will be, but at the very shortest I'm thinking at least in the 8-10 chapter range.  
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**I hope you continue to enjoy and thanks again for reading!**

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><p>He'd been so wrapped up in watching the little bird, in trying to figure out her relationship with the damned Imp, that he'd forgotten he was supposed to be reporting back to Joffrey. The very idea of doing so sent a sick sort of feeling pulsing through him, and yet...what choice did he have? It wasn't as if there was much to say...at least not at first. He'd let Joffrey ask the questions and Sandor had grunted his answers. <em>"So far as I know, your uncle hasn't had her yet. Yes, Your Grace, they both seem miserable. No, they don't argue. They barely speak at all. They spend as little time together as possible. No, I'm not sure what they do when they're apart."<em>

"Find out," Joffrey had ordered, in that firm and nasty tone that would brook no argument...even if Sandor had cared to give one. And his chance to "find out" what Sansa did during her free time had come up quite soon.

Though how Sandor would ever face Joffrey now, to tell him of Sansa's trips to the godswood, was beyond him. _She kissed me. She kissed me, and I kissed her back, and it was more than that and she appeared to _want_ it..._ The whole situation baffled him; just remembering her lips on his and then her tongue in his mouth and the way she'd pressed herself against him made his cock twitch with arousal. _How does the little bird even know to kiss like that? _he wondered.

He couldn't help but smile at the knowledge that Tyrion Lannister certainly didn't know how Sansa Stark kissed.

_This is a dangerous game you're playing, dog._ He would never for a moment forget that he'd had to be the one to pull away, to break their embrace, and now it seemed as if they were constantly missing each others' glances. _On purpose._

At least on his part.

Eventually Sandor couldn't avoid Joffrey any longer and forced himself to responded to the king's summons. "Well, do you have anything new to tell me, dog?" the little shit asked.

Sandor shrugged. "Haven't had time to figure out what your uncle is up to. Lady Sansa seems to spend most of her time in the godswood. Praying," he added stupidly.

"I know what one does in a godswood," Joffrey spat. "Though if anything it's more stupid to pray to a bunch of trees than to seven ugly little statues. Not that I'm surprised; my good-aunt certainly is stupid herself." Sandor bristled at this but knew better than to say anything or to disagree with Joffrey; the boy was obviously in one of his moods. "Go on, then, and unless my ugly little uncle decides to finally fuck the girl, or unless you figure out that he does something more interesting than go to a _godswood_, don't bother coming back anytime soon." Sandor took this at face value, nodded obediently and strode out of the king's solar. He was fairly shaking with anger - _again_. Ever since he'd met the little bird, this family that he'd once served almost thoughtlessly had seemed to do nothing but piss Sandor off. Joffrey had said that he knew what one did in a godswood, but on revisiting the boy's comment Sandor had to hold back a chuckle.

_He _could think of at least one other thing to do in a godswood - something Joffrey would certainly never come up with.

In fact, Sandor could think of quite a few things to do in a godswood...with the proper company.

He shook his head, wishing that the gesture would clear it and knowing it would do no good. He'd avoided the little bird the rest of the previous evening and all day today as well, but perhaps...

_Perhaps what?_ _Do you think she wants you, dog, _truly_ wants you?_ Whatever Sansa Stark had been thinking when she'd kissed him, it couldn't have been anything he would have wanted to know. _Well, and what do you want from her? Another song, another gentle caress on your cheek?_

The answer was that he wanted those things, and another kiss, and..._more_. He wanted her, all of her, strange little woman-child that she was. But what could the little bird know of a man's wants, a man's _needs_? She shared a marriage bed with the Imp, but not her maiden's gift.

_Yet you were the one to break the kiss_, Sandor reminded himself yet again. Far from flinching when his cock had gone hard against her, Sansa had pressed herself closer to him and sighed into his mouth, a wanton reaction that he had not expected...and thinking about it now...

Sandor had made up his mind. He headed straight for the Imp and the little bird's apartments, though the only thing he could think was to ask if she would like him to accompany her to the godswood again. When he arrived, though, Tyrion Lannister was sitting in their solar, eying the bedchamber door with trepidation. From behind it Sandor could hear a soft, sad sound that made his heart clench in his chest, and before he even knew what he was saying the words had left his mouth: "What did you do to her?" he growled menacingly, his hand clenched over his sword hilt.

The Imp narrowed his eyes at Sandor but otherwise appeared nonplussed. "I had to give her news of her brother's and mother's deaths, Clegane. Be thankful it was me who told the tale and not my little shit of a nephew." He paused and glanced at the door again, and when he closed his eyes and sighed Sandor wanted to hate him for it...yet somehow _couldn't. _"She took it well...at first. Like a true lady .But now..." Tyrion gestured helplessly at the door. Sandor could see that the Imp wanted to go to her, but apparently knew that it would not be a good idea to do so. He wondered if he would be received better, and took a tentative step toward the door, only stopping when he realized that Tyrion was looking at him again.

"Perhaps...she would like to go to the godswood," Sandor mumbled. "She seems to..." He stopped, unsure what else to say.

"By all means, make the offer," Tyrion replied. "Go with her, in fact. I don't want her chancing into Joffrey. Or even my sister or...or my father. But if she won't have it, you leave her alone, you hear?" Their eyes met and though there was a nasty reply on Sandor's tongue, he held it in and only nodded, before moving to the bedchamber door and rapping on it as softly as he could. For several long moments he waited; though he did not hear the little bird speak, Sandor imagined that the sobbing quieted a bit. _Just a bit._He knocked again.

"Please...I...I am indisposed," Sansa Stark finally called out, her voice thick with emotion and tears.

"Litt - " Sandor stopped himself and glanced over his shoulder. The Imp was still sitting there, still watching him. Sandor stared back, willing the little arse to leave...and finally Tyrion Lannister stood to do just that, throwing up his hands in frustration.

"Best of luck to you," the Imp said sarcastically. "Just remember what I said about leaving her alone."

Sandor quickly turned away so that Tyrion wouldn't see him roll his eyes, then waited until he heard the little arse's retreating footsteps and the sound of a door opening and closing before leaning against the door to the bedchamber and rasping, "Little bird. I've come to see if you'd like to go to the godswood." He paused for a moment, and then for some reason felt the need to clarify, "To pray. For...for your family."

He was met with a silence that stretched for such a long time that he began to think she meant to refuse but not say as much, when suddenly the door swung open and there she stood, dressed and cloaked and apparently ready to take him up on his offer. Sandor could hardly bear to look at her face, so pale and stricken with grief, eyes red-rimmed and nose swollen from crying. "Thank you," she said, so softly that he almost didn't hear the words, and Sandor felt compelled to offer his arm...for what could only be _support_.

_Is this how it feels to be...kind?_

They walked in silence, and when they entered the godswood her hand slipped from his arm as she made for her favorite tree. There was no Ser Dontos to remove tonight, thank..._well, thank whatever gods exist, if any of them do at all. _Sandor stepped aside and found a tree to lean against, then dutifully turned away from the little bird, trying his best not to listen to her hoarsely whispered words or to the occasional sobs that punctuated them.

Finally Sansa Stark slid her knees out from under her, adjusting her skirts so that she could sit fully on the ground. "Will you come sit by me?" she requested, her palm flat on the expanse of moss just beside her. Sandor jerked his head in agreement and moved to her side, lowering his almost ungainly large body slowly and deliberately. _Why is it that I can move so quickly in a fight, but with her I feel that everything has to be slow and deliberate? _he mused with something like mirth.

The little bird was silent again for quite some time, and Sandor began to wonder just why she had wanted him to sit with her - until without warning she pushed his arm out of her way and crawled into his lap, curling up like a child - _she is still something of a child, you arse _- and burying her head in his chest. "You're warm," she mumbled.

"Aye," he said, stupidly. Part of him wanted to tell her to move. This was too intimate by far, and not just because he could feel himself getting hard at the sensation of her soft body, so womanly for her age, pressed against him. "Little bird - "

"I like that you call me that," she said suddenly, interrupting him. "I know you do it to tease me, but no one has ever given me a name like that before. I've always been just...Sansa."

"You've never been just Sansa," he heard himself reply, and when she turned her head up and he saw how beautiful she was - despite her red eyes and nose, despite that her face was pinched with sadness - he knew that he was going to kiss her again.


	5. Sansa II

This time it was he who initiated the kiss, and Sansa was surprised at how gentle it was - at first just the softest brush of his lips against hers, so soft that even the ridged, burnt side of his mouth felt like the merest caress. It felt...it felt...

_Like home_, she thought. Like the feathery flakes of a summer snow, cool and hot at the same time. Like lying in bed on a bitter night, buried safely under warm, fuzzy furs. Like every loving touch her parents and siblings had ever given her.

It was the nicest thing she'd felt in such a very long time.

When the tears came again she reached up to wipe them away, roughly, angrily. _Wolves don't cry._ Yet she'd been crying all day, only now...now...it was a strange sort of emotion, what she was experiencing. It was anguish and heartache and hope and comfort all at once and though Sansa wanted to hate herself for it she realized that this, _this_, was what was left to her. No more family, no more _wolves_, but instead this fierce dog who was giving her security and longing all in the same breath.

Without truly knowing what she was doing, she turned in his lap and faced him, straddling him as a lady should never straddle anything but a horse - and even that wasn't very ladylike at all. She placed one hand on his 'good' cheek, warm and dry and stubbly with a day or two's growth of beard, and the other on his scarred cheek, which had once scared her so.

She stared at him for a long moment, his eyes glittering in the moonglow that filtered down through the trees. "Little bird..." He choked out the words, and she knew what he was going to say and knew that she didn't want him to say it. She pressed her lips to his again, a chaste, closed-mouth kiss that was nonetheless hard and passionate, and then she slid from his lap and stood.

"We should go," she sighed, and he scrambled to his feet, grunting and turning from her to adjust himself. She knew what he was doing; she'd felt him under her as she sat curled between his legs. Sandor offered her his arm again and when she placed her hand on it she murmured, "Thank you."

"You already said that," he muttered.

"Yes," Sansa admitted. "But before I was thanking you for getting Tyrion to leave, for offering to take me to the godswood. Now I'm thanking you for being here, for staying with me, for the fact that you will return me safely to my chambers." She smiled up at him, hoping he would see that these were not the empty courtesies that he hated so much.

He did; he nodded, and they returned to her chambers in the same silence with which they'd walked to the godswood. Some day he may be - no, would be - drunk and angry again as he had been so many times before. She knew this. But somehow he understood that just now she needed kind words or silence. He couldn't use the former, but he _would_ grant her the latter. _He knows me better than anyone here._

He knows me better than anyone else ever has.

Even her own family.

_But they're all dead anyway._

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><p>It was strange, how this grief made Sansa want to leave this place...and yet how Sandor's very presence was pulling her to stay. She had not been able to see Ser Dontos in several days, yet she assumed he still planned to take her from King's Landing the night of Joffrey's wedding. <em>Perhaps Sandor might come with us, <em>she thought, but quickly dismissed the idea. Ser Dontos had told her to trust no one, and while she herself did not believe that extended to Sandor Clegane, surely the drunk old fool would have a fit if she proposed such an idea. No one could know what he was to her...she was in enough danger as it was, and she certainly did not want to put him in a similar situation.

Tyrion stayed up half the night reading, as he so often did, and for her own part Sansa could not sleep. She kept thinking back to the godswood and to Sandor's arms around her, and every time she closed her eyes she remembered the feel of his manhood going hard beneath her, and how it had sent a tingling sort of rush through her, a feeling that had chipped away at the wall of misery inside of her...

Sansa wondered what it would be like to curl up next to him and sleep. So often she was alone in the bed she was supposed to share with Tyrion; when she wasn't, she still lived in fear that he would roll over and touch her in the middle of the night. What would it be like to sleep beside someone who would maybe..._hold_ her? _Someone who I would _want _to hold me..._

She wasn't sure how it could be possible, how she could make it work...but Sansa knew that she wanted to try. Perhaps _had_to try...if only for her own sanity.

The next morning as they were breaking their fast Tyrion commented on how tired she looked. _That is not something you say to your lady wife, _Sansa thought, but then he seemed to know little and less about women and marriage, and she was too exhausted to deal with the repercussions of being discourteous. "I am sorry if my look does not please you, my lord. I...I have not slept well, these past nights."

Recognition and shame flitted over Tyrion's features. "Of course, my lady. I apologize if I sounded...harsh. I merely meant to express concern for your well-being."

"I thank you, my lord," Sansa lied, and for once the deception came almost easily. "My lord, if I may..." Her voice trailed off and she bit her lip, suddenly unsure of what to say, how to say it.

"If you may what, Sansa?" Tyrion's tone was impatient; he was not even looking at her.

"I was hoping that I might hold a vigil tonight in the godswood. For...for my mother...and...and Robb..." Sansa's throat constricted as she fought back tears. This was an excuse...and yet it wasn't. The idea of spending a night amongst the trees - the only place she found any small sort of peace, nowadays - the idea of maybe even being free to speak aloud of those her captors called traitors...with someone who surely did not feel as they did...

Even as she thought this, Tyrion was waving her off. "Of course you may. But I do not want you to go alone. Perhaps one of your handmaids will accompany you?"

Sansa looked up at him and for a brief moment their eyes met. He must have seen her dismay and thought he understood it, for he immediately continued, "Or I suppose you could take the Hound again. That _is_what he's for, according to my kingly nephew. You're sure the man doesn't bother you?"

"No, he - " Sansa stopped herself. Tyrion's eyebrow had arched at her quick response, and she took a deep breath and averted her eyes before saying, "He stands guard where he can see me, but otherwise pays me no mind, doesn't bother me. I don't think he listens. I don't think he _cares_."

Tyrion actually _laughed_, then. "Wouldn't Joffrey be disappointed, if he knew his dog wasn't doing the task he'd been set. By all means, take the Hound with you to the godswood for the night."

Sansa did her best to nod demurely as she bent over the remains of her morning meal, but inside she felt about to burst at the seams. Not quite with happiness..._will I ever be happy again? _she wondered...no, the feeling was more like..._anticipation._

Yet if she'd thought that Sandor would have similar thoughts on the idea of them spending an entire night in the godswood together, Sansa found herself to be quite wrong. He came to her in the afternoon after Tyrion had left to deal with some business of his own, and when Sandor backed Sansa into the wall, trapping her in place with his arms, she did not understand the anger in his eyes.

"Why was I just told that I would be accompanying you to the godswood tonight _for an all-night vigil?_" he snarled, and for a moment Sansa remembered why she'd been so frightened of him in the past.

"I...I..." she stuttered, suddenly forgetting why she'd wanted this in the first place.

"Well?" he prompted, leaning in so close that she thought that perhaps, despite his anger, he still wanted nothing more than to kiss her. The idea of this gave her strength, and Sansa reached up to push him away, annoyed herself, now.

"Well?" she spat. "_Well? _After _everything_, you decide to question _this_? I may be young, Sandor, but I've flowered, I've been wed, and I do know _some _of the ways of this world. I'll tell you the truth of it, though - I thought it would be nice. Comforting. To have an entire night to ourselves in the only part of this keep that doesn't feel hostile to me. To lie next to you on the soft mossy ground of the godswood and pretend that in the morning I would not have to continue being Tyrion Lannister's wife. I suppose I should have known that you would mock me for wanting such things, but after yesterday..." Sansa's voice trailed off. She'd known that angering him again - as she'd once seemed to do more often than not - was inevitable...she just hadn't expected it to happen so soon. "Tyrion gave his...his blessing..." she finished weakly.

"His blessing," Sandor repeated. Sansa looked down to see that he was clenching and unclenching his fists, and she fought the urge to take his hands in hers. Suddenly he laughed, a mean bark of a sound, and pinched her chin as he was wont to do, forcing her to look him in the eye. "Does your husband Lord _Imp_ know exactly what he gave his blessing _for_?"

A childish part of Sansa wanted to giggle just then, for how angry would Tyrion be to know that she would never want him for his ugly stunted _Lannister_ self, yet she wanted this man before her now, huge and scarred and frightening Lannister _dog_ that he was...but she reminded herself that Tyrion had been kind to her - _as kind as he knows how,_she thought bitterly - and instead she simply said, "Of course not." And then she shrugged.

Again Sandor laughed at her. "So eager to betray, little bird. You may regret that - _this _- one day."

"No," Sansa replied quickly. "I will not." This time when he looked at her his anger seemed to have softened, though something else that she could not quite place lurked just beneath it. She latched on to that other thing, despite not being sure what it was, and finally took his hands in hers, using them as leverage to pull herself closer to him. "Will you come with me tonight, then?" she asked softly.


	6. Sandor III

**Thanks for all of the wonderful reviews, I'm glad you guys are enjoying it and trust me, I appreciate the kind comments more than you know :) I hate that it's taking me so long to update but now that I'm back from vacation hopefully I won't be going weeks between new chapters anymore. Hopefully. Unfortunately stressful real life crap still gets in the way sometimes. Sigh. I swear, though, slowly but surely I'll finish this one :D Thanks for reading!  
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><p>He could see the pleading in her eyes, and he hated that his anger was so nearly forgotten after just a few sweet chirps from the little bird. But he couldn't do this, couldn't spend the night with her, alone in the godswood, alone with Sansa Stark...<p>

_Could he?_

_Of course you _can..._and you can also give in to your baser instincts, give her what she thinks she wants and - _

No. _No._

Sandor must have been shaking his head, because suddenly Sansa tore her hands away from his. He caught a glimpse of the tears welling in her eyes as she spun away from him, and without hardly knowing what he was doing Sandor reached for her, clasping his hand over her shoulder to prevent her from flying away. She stiffened under his touch, but he was too strong for her, even now when he was being as gentle as he possibly could.

"Please release me," the little bird said, but it was a cold sort of chirp that made her courtesy sound as empty as he'd once thought it was.

"Will you say the same tonight, when we're alone in the godswood and I've drunk the flagon of wine I'll bring with me and kiss you and - "

"Perhaps I will," she interrupted, "and if I do, you'll do as I say, because you don't have it in you to force yourself upon me."

"And how do you know that, little bird?" he rasped, clenching at her shoulder though he didn't mean to do so, feeling her tense in pain and hating himself for it.

"Because you could have forced yourself on me quite a few times by now, yet it was _I_ who kissed _you_. And you have always let me go before." Sansa Stark turned to him then, her eyes meeting his in that way so few others dared to. Her look reminded him of the serpentine, of the top of Maegor's, of her bedchamber with wildfire glowing in the sky, of their first time in the godswood together…and of their last time in the godswood together.

And he knew that she was right.

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><p>They arrived in the godswood after the moon had risen high in the sky, armed with a sack of food, a flagon of wine, two cups, and several blankets. Sandor was at turns amused and confused at how this had come about, but before he could think of getting too comfortable they once again stumbled upon Ser Dontos - only this time, the fool-turned-knight was not sleeping. He smelled strongly of wine and was pacing back and forth, staggering unsteadily in his usual drunkenness, and though Sandor himself turned to wine more often than not he could not help but curl his lip in disgust. <em>This man is more a mess than I ever was.<em>

Sandor's loathing of Dontos flared up even more when the little bird drew a sharp breath and dropped back a step, presumably so that Sandor would be seen first. _Does this arse come here often to watch her, to bother her, to repeat any words she might utter in prayer to Joffrey or the Queen...or even the Imp? _he wondered.

"I - err - Hou - Cleg - erm - " Dontos stammered, rubbing at his eyes as if he must be seeing things.

"You again. Out," Sandor growled, and as Dontos hastened to obey he noticed Sansa standing just behind.

"My...my lady..." he began again, but one low grunt from Sandor sent Dontos on his way. Sandor watched him go, saw him glance back at them - _no, at the little bird _- several times, before finally disappearing from view.

"How often is he here?" Sandor asked, fixing his eyes on her so that she couldn't lie to him...but Sansa looked away, didn't answer at all, and so he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. "_How often is he here_?" Sandor repeated, his emphasis on the question sounding as threatening as he meant it to do.

"I...he..." Sansa glanced in the direction Dontos had gone; she was flustered, perhaps even..._frightened?_

"What is he playing at, little bird? What are _you _playing at?"

All at once Sansa began crying, went limp in his arms and whispered, "He promised to take me away from here."

Sandor released her, anger and frustration and somehow even _shame_ burning through him like the fire he hated so. "He did, did he? And you would go? With _him_?" The real question hung unspoken between them, and when her shoulders shook and she did not reply he knew the truth of it. That stupid drunken Dontos had offered exactly what he himself had offered - but she had agreed to go with Dontos, she must have, while she had refused him, refused him and then asked him to _stay_...

_You are more the fool than he, dog._

"Why don't you ask _Ser_ fucking Dontos to spend the night in the godswood with you, then?" Sandor snarled, his lip curled in disgust at - _at what? _At her? At Dontos, the fool?

_Or at himself?_

Sandor took another step back. Part of him wanted to leave her here; another part of him wanted her to tell him that none of this was true, to beg him to stay - _again_.

"Please, se - Sandor. Please. He contacted me...met me here...before...before you...before I knew..." Sansa was reaching for him now, but that little bit of pride that he kept tucked away, deep down inside of him, was rearing its head just now.

"Enough," he said sharply. "Enough. Tell me true, girl - were you still thinking on going with him, whenever he found the _courage_ to make good on his promise?" _I stayed for you. I stayed..._

"I...I don't know..." she admitted, begrudgingly. And then the words tumbled from her, and idiot that he was, he _listened._ "You scared me, that night...when you asked...you were drunk...I knew you _could_ protect me, but...it could have been a trick, and you...you were always so hateful...things are different now, I know this, I know _you_...for so long I was not even sure as to when he would take me, not until..."

Here she paused for so long that he forced himself to rasp, "Until what?"

"I told him that the Tyrells thought to marry me to Willas...and then he promised to take me the night of Joffrey's wedding." Sansa's tone was unsure; Sandor knew that she thought she shouldn't be telling him this. "But then the Lannisters..."

He knew what had come next; how could she not see the connection? "You told that fool that the Tyrells wanted to whisk you away, and next thing you know you're married to the Imp. Do you not see what they've done, girl? That arse is not working alone, he's far too stupid and - " Sandor stopped himself from saying _drunk_. After all, how often had he been sober, especially in the past? Yet apparently Sansa had not thought of all this before; the recognition that dawned on her face just then was quickly replaced by anger, then by fear.

"Oh," she said. "Oh...oh, I worried at times that this was a trap...but I hoped...I _hoped_..."

"My guess is that he was going to take you away and conveniently get caught. He would no longer be a fool, and in exchange they could name you a traitor and take your head as they did your father's. _Stupid_ girl. Didn't I tell you they were all liars? How could you think _Ser_ Dontos was any different?" Even as he said the words Sandor knew that he was saying too much, yet he could not stop himself. "But take your chance, if you will. Go with him, and see how things turn out. As for me...well, I suppose I'll stick around until I find another convenient moment to leave, and to hells with _you_."

He didn't mean a word of what he was saying, he knew that, but gods, she made him so damned _angry_! So silly, so simple, so _trusting_, and apparently she'd never really listened to a word he'd said. "Here." Sandor shoved the provisions at her. "Keep your vigil, but do it alone." He had to get away from here, from _her_. He should have done so long ago. He turned to leave, allowing the sack to drop to the ground when she didn't take it from him quickly enough, but then he felt her hand on his wrist and knew that she was gripping him with all her strength.

"No. Please, _please_ don't go. I'm sorry, you're right, I was...I shouldn't have...I'll go with you, with _you_. If you'll take me I'll go, but it will have to be soon, before the wedding, or during, or else Dontos...I...who knows what will happen..." The little bird was crying, apologizing, _begging_...

"And if I can't? Can't get you away, take you away, do what you're asking? Then what?" Sandor growled, but he knew as soon as he'd spoken that he was lost. He'd let go of his chance to walk away from her..._again._

"You will." She gave him a tremulous smile, tears shining in her eyes. "You will. I _trust _you."

Sandor felt the twitch of her hand as it tightened around his wrist, and though he hated himself for it a hot surge of lust burned in him just then...and before he knew what he was doing he yanked the arm she was holding back toward himself, wrapping his other arm about her waist to press their bodies together. _Gods_, her breasts were fairly heaving, though with what he couldn't say. Something similar to what he was feeling, perhaps, but he could see that she was still upset, confused, concerned...his little bird, he'd hurt her again. He hadn't _meant _to do so, and he didn't know how to fix it, really...all he could think to do was bend his head down and press his mouth to hers. She went nearly limp in his grasp, her hand dropping from his wrist as she wrapped her arms around him, let him part her lips with his tongue. It defied all logic, that Sansa Stark could fairly melt into him like this when moments before he'd...he'd...

Yet just now none of that mattered, it seemed. He _would_ take her away from here, he _would_, but at the moment _this_ was the only thing he could focus on - the little bird enveloped in his arms, kissing him, _wanting_ to kiss him, and he had her here - _alone _- in the godswood.

For the rest of the night.


	7. Sansa III

How could she have been so stupid? Sandor was right, they were _all_ right. That's what she was. _Stupid._

A little voice in the back of Sansa's head screamed that she wasn't, she _wasn't_, she was just desperate, desperate to get away from here...and she knew then more than ever before that Sandor was the only one she could trust. Where they would go, or _could _go, she had no idea...

_...unless..._

She broke their kiss as gently as possible, tilting her head back, pulling her lips out of his reach when he tried to initiate it again. "S...Sandor?"

"What?" he snarled, crushing her against him, now attempting to lift her up and kiss her. When she turned her head away, once again out of his reach, she heard him growl low in his throat. "Seven hells, little bird, can't you see I'm trying to - "

"I know very well what you're trying to do." She couldn't help but giggle. "But...well, I have...something of an idea...and I thought..."

Sandor released her with a frustrated grunt. "Say it, then."

"I...I was wondering...where we could go. A place no one would suspect...and I thought...your brother is away to war, is he not?"

Sansa saw his lip twitch; it was even more pronounced than usual at mention of Gregor. "What does my brother have to do with anything?" he rasped, and she could hear the barely contained anger in his words. She was nearly frightened at this other side of him, this fury that he must usually attempt to hide from her, yet she pressed on. After all, this was the only solution she could think of at the moment.

"Your...your family seat...you...you do have one?"

"Aye," he growled. "Clegane Keep." He spat out the words vehemently; he did not like this place, but then that would serve them well. She watched him, wide-eyed, for several moments...and finally the realization seemed to dawn on him. "No," he simply stated.

"It's the only plan we have right now," she reminded him. "Think on it, please?" She thought then about reaching for him, kissing him, pressing herself against him. Sansa knew that doing so would possibly even convince him to agree, but then she remembered Cersei's words. _Learn to use the weapon between your legs_, the Queen had said...but Sansa would not be that kind of woman.

Especially not with Sandor.

Instead she moved away from him, picked up the sack that he had dropped on the ground and began laying out the blankets. The flagon of wine had been well cushioned amongst the bread and coverlets, and only one of the cups was cracked. She sat down and poured them each a drink, holding out the whole cup as a sort of peace offering.

At first Sandor narrowed his eyes at her; he even opened his mouth as if to speak...but finally he dropped to the ground beside her and took the cup of wine from her hand, drinking it down in a single gulp and holding the cup out for more. Sansa filled it obediently, and this time he only took a sip before setting it aside, taking her cup from her hand, and moving over her, lowering himself so that she was forced to lay back on the blankets.

"Is this what you wanted, little bird?" he asked as he pressed himself into her thigh. She could feel his manhood hard against her, but she merely closed her eyes and took a shuddering breath, warmth pooling in her nether regions in a most unladylike manner. When the word "Yes" escaped her lips, she knew that as much as it scared her...she _meant_ it. In response Sandor bucked his hips toward her and Sansa went red with shame when a low moan escaped her lips. He silenced her with another kiss, a hard kiss filled with lust, and her body rose to meet his as if doing so was the most natural thing in the world, the _only _thing in the world.

Sandor's hand moved beneath her and she could feel him fumbling with her laces; she arched herself against him as if to give him room to do so, despite the fact that something inside of her was saying _no, this can't happen _now_, maybe soon but _not _now..._

With a frustrated grumble Sandor suddenly grabbed a handful of her dress in his hands and yanked. Sansa heard a tear and felt him hastily pushing the gown down, off her shoulders and over her breasts so that they spilled out and she gasped into his mouth as the chill night air brushed over her nipples...though she was not sure if it was this or _him _that caused them to form hard, aroused little peaks. He broke their kiss then and in the gleam of the moonlight she could see his heaving shoulders as he looked down upon her half-naked body.

"Fuck, girl," Sandor murmured, and there was wonder in his eyes as his calloused hand cupped her breast, squeezing it ever so gently before running the inside of his thumb over her nipple in a way that made her go weak with desire. Still, when he settled himself on his knees and began untying his breeches a stab of something like fear startled her into speaking.

"Sandor, I...we..."

He laughed, then, but it was a soft sound, not angry at all. "There are other ways to please each other, little bird. Don't fret; I'll not take your maidenhead tonight."

That last word made her blush, and her stomach seemed to do a flip inside of her. But all Sansa could bring herself to say just then was, "Show me."

He took her hand, then, and when he hesitated for just a moment she nodded to let him know that it was okay. He guided her toward him and she knew what he wanted; her heart thudding in her chest, Sansa gently pushed his breeches aside and grasped his manhood in her hand. _Gods,_ she thought, when she realized just how _big _he was - her hand may be small, but the fact that she could barely wrap it all the way around him...

Sansa released his manhood from its confines and Sandor lowered himself over her again, taking a breast in his mouth, grazing his teeth over her skin as he flicked the tip of his tongue over her nipple. The sensation caused her to grip him even harder, and though she could not hear the word she felt him say "Yes," before closing his mouth over her breast to suckle on her. And then his hand was between her legs, his fingertips gently trailing up the inside of her thigh, pushing her smallclothes aside to find her center, her folds wet with arousal. He made a V with his fore and middle fingers, pressing against her as the rough tip of his thumb flicked the hard little pearl between them.

Though she was not sure how she knew to do it, Sansa's hand began moving of its own accord, cupping the tip of him, feeling the wet that was fairly dripping from it and smoothing it over him as she stroked. And as she did so she felt him increase his pressure and the speed of his movements on her woman's place, so that she almost lost herself for a moment as a strange sort of pressure built inside of her. "Sandor..." she murmured, though she immediately wished she'd held back saying his name...if only for...

_For what?_

"Little bird..." Sandor rasped in response, his manhood twitching in her grasp, the tip of his thumb flicking slowly, almost _painstakingly_, over her aroused nub. Sansa gasped as her entire body twitched at his touch. Apparently her grip tightened around him even more, for he rolled his hips toward her and dragged his thumb slowly over her pearl one more time, bringing on a release that felt like an explosion within her. She bucked against him for a moment, moaning - a sound she'd never thought to make, perhaps not even with a husband - and then she felt him pulse, felt his seed spill and soak through her gown, warm and wet. Sandor then seemed to relax automatically, stretching out beside her and enveloping her in his arms.

"Thank you," Sansa whispered, an almost automatic response. She felt more than heard Sandor chuckle.

"Such a wanton little bird has no right to spout courtesies like that," he mumbled. She could hear the sleepiness in his voice. _Is this how all men act...after? _Sansa wondered.

"Is that what it always feels like?" she suddenly asked, knowing that this question would at least catch his attention.

"If a man knows what he's doing, I suppose," was his raspy response. "Though I've heard the first time..."

"Can hurt, yes." Sansa said this with all the bravery she could manage, though somehow it didn't take quite as much as she'd expected. Perhaps having had to face her wedding night once had made all the difference. "Yet I've been told...if one _wants _it..."

"And you want it, do you?" Sandor chuckled in response, rolling over to press his still-hard manhood against her thigh and brush his lips across hers. Sansa closed her eyes and nodded, feeling her cheeks burn, though this time not with shame - of that much she was certain.

Just now, though...just now she felt sated, sleepy, and she could tell from his slower, more rhythmic breathing that Sandor felt the same. At first when she tucked herself against him she felt him go rigid, but after several moments he finally wrapped his arms about her and all too soon he was snoring softly. Sansa tried to stay awake just a little longer - she wanted to relish this moment forever, warm and soft and safe as it was, but at some point she must have fallen asleep. No nightmares plagued her, though, and when she woke it was to the grey light of pre-dawn filtering through the trees above them and the feel of Sandor's hand stroking slowly up her leg. She mewed in pleasure though she was still half asleep, and the sound seemed to startle him, for he stopped the movement, pulled his hand away.

"Is...is this...all right? Little bird?" he asked, sounding so like a boy caught doing something wrong that she had to smile.

"Yes," Sansa murmured. "Oh, yes."

"It's just..." his hand moved to her leg again, gently pushing her skirts out of the way. "Gods know when we will have this chance again..."

To answer him Sansa merely pressed her hand against his groin, feeling that he was already stiff with arousal. "Yes," she said again. "Please."

With a growl of approval he dragged himself away from her touch, and for a moment she thought to ask why until suddenly she felt his lips brush over her kneecap. The soft smoothness of the good side of his face contrasted perfectly with the rough, scratchy scarred side, and Sansa heard herself whimper as he pushed her skirts up even farther, dragging his mouth along the inside of her thigh until it found her folds, damp and still aching pleasurably from the night before. Still, nothing could have prepared her for the feel of his head between her legs, the tip of his tongue tracing slowly around the inside of her woman's place and flicking over that nub that had given her such amazing sensations mere hours before.

"I...I can't reach you..." she whispered apologetically.

"You don't need to," he muttered, so quietly that she barely heard him, the hot feel of his breath causing her to shudder in expectation. As his mouth moved over her Sandor inserted one large, rough fingertip just inside her opening and Sansa bucked against him. He pleasured her softly, slowly, gently, and this time her peak came on so gradually that she thought she would fairly melt into a puddle as she climaxed, her insides pulsing with such intensity that she could not stop herself from calling out his name.

As soon as she did he pulled away. "Sansa..." he groaned, nearly collapsing onto her, moving his hips so that his manhood rubbed enticingly close to her woman's place. He was still fully clothed; she was not scared or worried, though she was sure that even if he'd removed his breeches she would feel neither of those things anyway. Only a few moments passed before his movements became hurried, his hands wrapping around her waist to hold her tight against him, and Sansa stroked his hair as he found his release, murmuring his name into his ear as he did and relishing the fact that he groaned her own name in return. Not 'girl', not 'little bird', but her name, her real, _true_ name - "Sansa, Sansa, Sansa..."


	8. Sandor IV

**I have to warn you guys that this chapter is a bit slow and has very little dialogue. In fact I'm not really pleased with it at all. But it needed to be written and this is the only/best way I could think to do it, so there ya go. I hope you enjoy anyway! And reviews are always appreciated...even/especially if they contain constructive criticism ;)**

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><p>What was it about this girl, that he could desire her so much and yet not even consider ravishing her every which way he knew? He wanted her to find her pleasure at his fingertips, under his mouth. When she cried his name with her release, everything in him broke asunder and mended together all at once.<p>

He would take Sansa Stark away from this place, and soon. He would take her to Clegane Keep, perhaps, if the time came for them to leave and he still thought it the last place anyone would look. And after...when things were safer for her, for _them_, perhaps he would take her North.

Take her _home._

When Sandor slept beside the little bird, he did not experience the nightmares that so often plagued him at other times. When he was with her, he did not keep her safe out of duty or some misplaced sense of loyalty, as he had with Joffrey - he kept her safe because he _wanted _to keep her safe, because she deserved his protection far more than he deserved her company or her sweet words, her touches, her kisses.

More than anything he wanted more sleep, after they'd pleasured each other in the misty dawn of the godswood...but Sandor knew that this wasn't possible, knew that he had to return her to her chambers.

_To her husband._

The thought annoyed him, but also made him impatient for reasons he didn't quite understand. Sandor stood and brushed himself off, tied his laces and straightened his clothes. The little bird looked up at him with sad eyes. "We should go," he said, a bit too gruffly.

"I know," she said softly, averting her eyes.

"The wedding is tomorrow. We...we should be ready to leave, to slip out during the feast when they're not like to notice us do so or realize that we are missing for some time."

"I know," the little bird repeated, and Sandor had to clench his jaw to keep himself from telling her not to be insipid.

Soon enough they were on their way back to the apartments she shared with Tyrion Lannister, though when they arrived that man was not there. "Surprised he's not still abed," Sandor snorted when he saw the chamber door swung open and the bed within it still pristine from being made the day before.

"He often doesn't come to bed at all," Sansa informed him, the relief in her voice a near palpable thing. She turned to Sandor and buried herself against him; for a moment he didn't think, _couldn't _think, and he instinctively wrapped his arms around her...

...and all too soon realized what he was doing. Sandor extracted himself from her grasp as quickly and smoothly as possible. "Little bird, I'm sorry, we...we can't...not here..." Gods, he was _apologizing_...when was the last time he'd done _that_?

Had he _ever _done that?

"Yes...I...of course..." The little bird seemed almost confused, though whether it was due to his words or to something else, Sandor felt he would rather not know.

"Pack some things. Any coin or jewels that you can take without anyone noticing they're gone. A couple gowns, a warm cloak, good shoes. Nothing...fancy." He knew that last bit sounded strange coming from him, but she had to know what he meant. _Nothing a highborn lady would wear._

Sansa nodded. "I will see you tonight?" The hope in her voice damn near broke his heart.

"I'll be here to _guard_ you and the Imp, as usual," he replied, his lip automatically curling in distaste. She gave him a tremulous smile, and before he could ignore his better judgment and take her in his arms again, Sandor gave a stiff jerk of his head in farewell and stalked out of the room. He needed wine, or ale..._and a cold bath._

How he got through the rest of that day, Sandor never knew. He checked on his horse, snuck some food from the kitchens, packed what he could manage of the rest of his tourney winnings along with a couple different sets of clothing. He barely made it back to Sansa and Tyrion's chambers for dinner, but other than a raised eyebrow from the Imp and a worried glance from Sansa Sandor received no chiding for his lateness. He could feel the little bird glancing at him far too often as she ate, and he knew that she wanted him to acknowledge her...but he couldn't. They must keep up appearances, how could she of all people not understand that? He finally gave a small shake of his head, his eyes still fixed on the wall beyond Sansa Stark and her husband.

After that she did not look at him any more, and though Sandor knew that this was for the best he still felt their lack of contact far more than he would have liked to do.

A messenger arrived toward the end of Sansa and the Imp's meal, but surprisingly his words were for Sandor. "The king would see you. Immediately." Sandor nodded his agreement and followed the man out of the little bird's chambers. He could feel her eyes on his back as he left, but he was certain the Imp was watching him go as well...and in that case, he knew that he should not turn to look at her.

Osmund Kettleblack and Balon Swann were guarding Joffrey's door tonight. It was all Sandor could do to not snort in disdain; two of the newest members of that order assigned the same watch? He wanted to wonder what fool had come up with that idea, but considering the general idiocy of Joffrey's reign, what did it matter anyway?

"Dog," the king greeted Sandor when he entered the room. "I've heard some interesting news today."

"What's that?" Sandor mumbled, wondering just a bit too late whether it was smart of him to continue not using the proper courtesies that he'd never before used with Joffrey.

But the boy merely leaned back in his chair and looked at Sandor with narrow eyes and a shit-eating smile. "I was told that you spent the night in the godswood with my good-aunt."

Silence stretched between them for several long moments, but after the initial skip of a heartbeat that Joffrey's words caused Sandor knew it would be best to keep his mouth shut. _There's no way he knows, or the little bird and her dog would both be dead already._

Finally Joffrey sighed, curling his lip in distaste. "Well? Is it true? And if so...did you hear her say anything?"

_Treasonous_, Joffrey meant. _Did you hear her say anything treasonous. _Well, and they'd both said many things, most of which were treasonous. Sandor almost wanted to laugh. "She prayed," he grunted instead.

"She _prayed._ About _what_, dog?"

"She prayed that her lord husband would find her marriage bed so that she could be his true wife and bear him children," Sandor lied, the words coming to him far more easily than he cared for because he knew what Joffrey would want to hear. He was right; the boy's response was a cackling laugh. "And she prayed for you, that you would have a..." here he paused a moment. What would the little bird pray for, were she so inclined to actually pray for Joffrey? "A...beautiful..." he had to force that word out, but yes, it _was _something Sansa Stark would say, "wedding to Margaery Tyrell on the morrow. She also asked that Myrcella would write to her, and said something else about Tommen and kittens."

Joffrey waved him off. "I've heard enough. Gods, she's just as stupid as ever. I suppose it's a good thing after all that Mother and Grandfather insisted I marry Margaery. She's not so pretty as Sansa, but she's a good deal smarter."

Sandor bristled at this, but forced himself to hide his reaction deep inside. It wouldn't do for Joffrey to see him take Sansa Stark's part...no, it wouldn't do at all.

Again there was a period of silence, but Sandor was afraid that if he spoke he would reveal something that he shouldn't. Joffrey wasn't the sharpest sword in the armory, but he wasn't stupid either...and at times he had an uncanny knack for seeing people's weaknesses. Eventually the king rolled his eyes and snapped, "I don't know what's gotten into you lately, dog, but you're becoming just as stupid as Sansa Stark. Go. I'm certain I'll see you standing behind my uncle and good-aunt at the feast tomorrow. Perhaps I'll toss you a bone."

Sandor inclined his head and backed out of the room, wanting nothing more than to be gone from there before he said or did something he shouldn't. Used to be it wasn't so difficult to ignore Joffrey's nastiness, to even laugh at it sometimes. But there was no denying that things had changed when Sansa Stark had come around...

His sleep that night was so fitful as to be almost nonexistent. Sandor supposed he should be used to that by now, and of course he had quite a few reasons to find rest difficult to achieve at the moment...but at the same time he cursed the lack of it for the sake of the _need _for it. His head felt fuzzy and his eyes were burning as he arrived at Sansa's chambers to escort her and the Imp to Joffrey's wedding breakfast. She looked radiant, and she also appeared to have slept far better than he. They shared a quick look when Tyrion's back was turned, but knew better than to prolong it or to speak. Her smile was tremulous yet hopeful, and for a moment Sandor wondered if he could ever possibly live up to the man she thought him to be.

The wedding breakfast was something of a bad jape, though Sandor wondered how he could be surprised at that. He tried not to look to the little bird too often, and instead watched her little lord husband choose wine over food again and again. The only time Sandor started from his reverie was when Joffrey threatened to visit Sansa's bedchamber...at this point Sandor had to focus on the wall and force himself to breathe, remind himself that he would be taking the little bird away from here _today_, that he would do as he promised and keep her safe, that her maidenhead would not be taken by any Lannister.

He refused to think about the fact that she may even want _him _to take it.

Sandor almost felt bad for the Imp when Joffrey hacked that obviously costly book to pieces, yet what had Tyrion been thinking giving a gift like that to a boy like the king? It was shocking that the Imp kept his temper after that, and as soon as the time came to make for Baelor's and the wedding Sandor dutifully followed the dwarf and the little bird, keeping his distance when the Dornishman and his consort came to walk beside them, striding along behind their litter and knowing that his presence at least kept the fool peasants from throwing dung at Sansa.

The ceremony itself was nothing to Sandor, except that it bade him recall the last wedding he'd attended and all that had transpired after - and _because_- of it. Had Sansa not married Tyrion, he never would have gone to the godswood with her, and mayhap she never would have kissed him...

He shook his head, glad to be standing in the shadows at the back of the sept where he wouldn't be seen. What good had come of that wedding for Sansa Stark? _Certainly not taking part with you, dog._

And then there was a kiss and a proclamation and none of it mattered half a shit to Sandor, who followed Tyrion Lannister and Sansa Stark back to their litter, followed their litter back to the Red Keep, and waited outside their chambers as they readied themselves to go to the feast. When they finally emerged the little bird looked so exquisite that she nearly took Sandor's breath away. She even greeted him, a mumbled "Clegane" and a bow of the head that caught the Imp's attention, but not as Sandor worried it would. Instead Tyrion took to watching Sansa with a bemused expression, and finally, assured that this one man would not note his own gaze on Sansa Stark, Sandor allowed himself to watch her as well.

She was, in a word, _perfect. _Even when that little witch of a woman, Olenna Tyrell, fiddled with Sansa's hair net and insisted on chatting with the little bird. Sandor didn't like the woman at all - she was known for speaking her mind, this 'Queen of Thorns', yet when she wanted to keep her true thoughts to herself she did so, and quite easily. Just now as Lady Olenna talked to Sansa, Sandor could see the false courtesy plain on her face.

He wondered if the little bird could see it as well.

More pomp and show ensued once they entered the hall, with Tyrion and Sansa taking their seats and Sandor finding his place behind them. Course after course, singer after singer, and he could see that Sansa was pointedly avoiding looking at him, though she must be thinking just as he was - _when, when, when is the right time?_

Eventually the Imp was drunk and the king even drunker. _Soon_, Sandor knew, but then the doors opened and admitted..._jousting dwarves? Oh, the Imp will _love_ this._

Yet Tyrion seemed to take it as well as his obviously drunken self could, even letting fly a few quips of his own when Joffrey tried to make him joust with his little likenesses. Sandor thought perhaps he could take a breath and hint to Sansa that they should go, and soon, when suddenly the king was between him and the little bird...and throwing wine at his uncle. The only thing that spared more of a scene was Joff's being called away to cut the pigeon pie, and when the king strode back to their seats to confront his uncle again, it was clear that all eyes would once again be on Joffrey and the Imp. Sandor finally caught Sansa's eye and mouthed _Go._

She did. He lingered, not wanting anyone to see him leaving the hall on her heels, yet he could have - _should_ have - gone when Joffrey started shoving Tyrion's pie into his own mouth. Sandor should have gone when the king started coughing, should have gone when it was clear that Joffrey was in fact _choking_. Instead he stood as if transfixed as his former charge died right in front of him, as Cersei clutched at the boy's body, screaming, crying.

Only when a thin black dog appeared at the side of the dead king did Sandor suddenly come to his senses. No one was looking at him; many of the guests had fled already and those who remained were milling about in disorder. The noise in the hall was like a roaring in his ears, and after taking several slow, deliberate steps backward Sandor finally turned on his heel and walked purposefully to the doors. He did not look back, not once, for he knew where Sansa must be and how much time was of the essence.

Though she'd kept him here once with just a few sweet words, tonight the little bird would teach him how to fly.


	9. Sansa IV

_Soooo...this chapter took me *forever* to write. Part of it was that I was locked in place with a plot I wasn't sure about, and I ended up re-writing it like three times (no lie). The other issue is that real life has suddenly become one big crazy hassle for me as I'm now basically working two jobs and am lucky to have more than 2 free nights a week. Sigh. I will say, be ready for plot twists because changing one thing (or two. or more.) led to changing others...haha._

_Thanks for all of the reviews by the way! I promise that this will continue, though it may be along the "slowly but surely" lines due to my current life situation...unfortunately.  
><em>

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><p>The bells were ringing, and Sansa Stark was weeping. Silly Lady Tanda had seen her crying and running from the feast and thought that Sansa wept for Joffrey. Something in Sansa - the part that Sandor had awakened, she guessed - had wanted to rise up and smack Lady Tanda, tell her that she, Sansa, wept for Robb and her Lady Mother and her little brothers and even for Margaery, in a way...but that would have been stupid, smacking Lady Tanda, and instead Sansa followed the plan and made for the godswood.<p>

She waited only a few minutes before Sandor arrived as well. "He's dead," he mumbled. "And we need to leave this place. Now." Sansa held up her sack.

"I'm ready."

"Shouldn't you change? That gown..."

He was right of course; the gown was such a pale color, and not fit for travel at all...Sansa nodded and set her sack down, reaching into it for something more appropriate when suddenly a rustle of leaves startled them. "Who's there?" Sandor growled, and in response Dontos stumbled out from amongst the trees, drunk and wearing his Hollard surcoat - which he'd been told he could never do again.

Dontos stopped short. "You...you did not come alone..." he stammered, looking fearfully at Sandor. Sansa followed the fool's glance and knew that it was now unlikely that Dontos could live to see another dawn.

"You shouldn't have come at all," she replied sadly.

"I...I was to take you away from here," Dontos said, confused.

Sandor shook his head. "She's not met with you in how long, fool? Why would you think she still wanted to leave with you...if that's ever what you truly intended at all..."

"It was, it was, I swear it! My Jonquil, tell him, tell him I promised..." Dontos was bug-eyed and frightened, and fool that he was Sansa found herself feeling bad for him. Again.

"Jonquil?" Sandor snorted, turning to her. Sansa immediately flushed red in embarrassment; oh _why_had Dontos insisted on calling her that just now?

"Please, my lady, please, you must come with me now. I've a man waiting, a boat, we'll take you from here, truly..." The fool's eyes were flicking back and forth between Sansa and Sandor, who merely laid his hand on the hilt of his sword in answer.

"Enough," Sansa heard herself say. "Ser Dontos, there has been a change of plans. I'm still leaving this place, but I will be going with Clegane here."

"Aye, and as we can't have you running about and telling this to the whole of the Red Keep..." Sandor's voice trailed off as he unsheathed his sword, the hiss of metal on leather causing Dontos's face to blanch.

"Lady Sansa, please, don't let him do this...I...I won't tell anyone, I swear, and...oh, I'll be in such trouble if I do not bring you to the boat tonight..." The knight-turned-fool was still stuttering, shifting uncomfortably, wringing his hands together.

"I wish I could believe that you would not tell anyone, Ser Dontos," Sansa frowned. "I'd like to think you wouldn't _mean_ to do so, anyway. But as you're the only one that knows of our plans, we certainly can't leave you to run around the Red Keep. No matter how much I'd _like_ to trust you." She looked up at Sandor, not knowing what to say, what to _do_.

Quick as a cat Sandor had his hand wrapped in Dontos's surcoat and his sword at the man's throat. "Tell us _everything_," he growled. "If Lady Sansa likes what she hears, mayhap I'll spare your useless hide."

"I...he..._he _will kill me if I tell you anything," Dontos blubbered, his eyes wet with tears. Sansa felt almost sorry for him, truly she did, but something in the way his eyes were shifting back and forth between Sandor and the sky made her quite uncomfortable.

"Tell us," she repeated, though in a somewhat kinder tone than Sandor had used. _"Everything." _After another moment's pause, she added a soft, "Please."

"I...I..." Dontos's eyes were wide and bloodshot; he was frightened, she knew, and she didn't think it would help when Sandor pressed his blade into the drunken fool's throat and a thin line of blood appeared. Sansa was both surprised, and not surprised, when this action finally brought about a response. In hurried stammering, Ser Dontos spilled the entire tale. Littlefinger, the money he'd offered Dontos, the hairnet..._gods, the hairnet_...Sansa felt sick.

"I thought you were going to take me home," she said, and though she felt sad she was not sure if it was for herself or for Dontos. She knew by the look in Sandor's eyes and by the way he stood, tense with his need to cut the fool down, that Dontos had dug himself an inescapable hole. And really, how could she have ever believed that he had the capability to bring her back to Winterfell? To bring her _anywhere_, for that matter? Of course he'd been working for someone... "You told me to wear this hair net..." He...he and Littlefinger...Joffrey was dead, and no matter how anyone looked at it, she was _involved..._

"We need to be going, little bird. Now." Sandor's voice was insistent, and he spoke through gritted teeth. "Go to the stables, I'll meet you there soon."

Dontos was trembling, mumbling apologies and pleading under his breath, yet despite everything Sansa still had to force herself to look away. "Soon," she repeated Sandor's word, before turning and running from the godswood, from him and from what she knew he must do. She wondered if she should have clarified that she meant him to be quick, to be merciful...

_He is not one to torture,_ she reminded herself. _Not with what Gregor did to him. Not with what he's seen Joffrey do._But gods, she'd essentially just ordered Ser Dontos's execution...Ser Dontos, who'd seemed such a harmless old fool...

_A harmless old fool who was placing you in the hands of a man you barely know, all for a bit of gold. A harmless old fool who gave you a hair net full of poison, poison that killed the king..._Sansa would just need to keep telling herself these things, over and over and over again. Reminding herself what her mercy would have led to - moving from one cage to another, going from being a Lannister prisoner to being a pawn of Littlefinger's. Or worse...Ser Dontos could have turned on her entirely and called her kingslayer, with the hairnet as his proof. No, it was better this way. This way, she was taking her future into her own hands, placing her safety into the hands of the only person she had trusted since Joffrey had called for her father's head.

The bells were ringing of a king's death, now, and they reminded Sansa of _before_, reminded her of it so much that she couldn't abide them at all. She pressed her hands over her ears and ran through the Keep to the stables, doing her best to stay in the shadows and wondering how they would ever get out of this place alive...especially if Sandor was not close behind her...

Yet when she reached Stranger's stall and stopped, Sansa did not even have time to catch her breath before Sandor was by her side, his blade sheathed once again. The only proof of what he'd done was in the set line of his jaw and the angry fire still burning in his eyes, and he said not a word to her as he gently pushed her aside and led his great black destrier out. The animal had been saddled and Sandor's sack of belongings left tucked under the rushes in its stall; and though Sansa wished Sandor would say something, _anything_, to her, he only lifted her onto Stranger's back, pulled himself up behind her, and spurred the stallion on.

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><p>Later, Sansa could not say much of what had happened as Stranger galloped out of the Red Keep, through the narrow twisting streets of King's Landing and then through the Lion's Gate to the Goldroad. Not a few men tried to stop them; the city had been ordered closed, the king having been murdered at his wedding feast. Sansa hid her face as one by one Sandor cut these men down, ensuring that each and every one of them was dead before they moved on. "One <em>dying <em>man left behind, and soon enough Cersei will know that we are together," he explained roughly, after the first kill, the one that left her nearly retching, begging him to leave be, to take them from here without even stopping to take care of these men of the City Watch. She knew that he was right, of course, but even after Dontos something in her was raring up at the near-brutal deaths Sandor was inflicting on these men.

_Stop_, she told herself. _Stop being such a weak little bird_. Sansa kept herself awake as long as she could, holding herself up so that Sandor wouldn't have to...but sometime during the night she must have slept, for she woke to the bright light of morning, slumped against his chest, her entire body aching from the ride and the uncomfortable position in which she now found herself. "Where...where are we?" she mumbled, rubbing at her eyes and shifting in the saddle.

"As far from the city as we could get in one night," Sandor grumbled. "I've kept to the road so far, but as it's day now we'll have to take some rest and keep off any well-traveled paths. And...well, I'm not so sure we should continue on to Clegane Keep just now."

Sansa could see that he hated to admit this. "Why...why not?" she forced herself to ask.

"I was there, little bird. I was _right there _when Joffrey died. They all saw me, and gods know I'm not in favor with many at the Red Keep just now. I took the Goldroad as planned, but we need to think of another place to go."

Again he was right, and again she hated it. "May we stop for a bit?" she pleaded. "I need to stretch." _I need to think. _Sandor nodded, and soon after he veered off the road, traveling for the better part of another hour before finally bringing Stranger to a halt.

"I'm going to find water," he announced. "Stay here, close to Stranger. He's bad-tempered enough that anyone who approaches won't get so close as to do you harm. Just...keep away from his teeth. And his hooves." With that Sandor stalked off, leaving Sansa wondering how close she was supposed to stay to the destrier if she also had to keep away from numerous parts of the animal's body. Finally she began to pace nearby, as near to Stranger as she dared, back and forth and back and forth, trying to think on where they could go. If Clegane Keep was not an option - and certainly the Riverlands and the North were not, either - where else could they possibly go?

Unbidden, a woman's face came to Sansa's mind. A dark-haired woman, not beautiful but eye-catching nonetheless, and beside her a dark-eyed man with a sharp nose and prominent widow's peak. _Why am I thinking of Prince Oberyn and his paramour just now? _Sansa wanted to cry from frustration as she finally sat heavily on the ground, burying her face in her hands. She was not clever enough for this, not clever enough by half. She'd never think of a place where they would be safe; they would wander the countryside and eventually be caught and likely killed.

But the vision of Prince Oberyn and Ellaria Sand would not go away. What was it that they had come to King's Landing for, again? Tyrion had not given her details, yet there had been something about Rhaegar Targaryen's queen, Elia Martell...Prince Oberyn's sister...and the Lannisters...the Lannisters...

Sansa sat up. Her little lord husband had not divulged any more than he _had _to about Prince Oberyn Martell's visit to the Red Keep, but she knew a few things herself. Knew them from the few stories that spread around Winterfell of Robert's Rebellion, before her father had done his best to hush them up. Knew them from when she and Jeyne Poole had snuck around with pilfered books about the last Targaryens and the war that ended their line, wondering about the handsome Prince Rhaegar and his sadly beautiful Dornish wife.

His Dornish wife, who had died at the hands of Lannister men the day Tywin Lannister took King's Landing.

It was a risk, of course - a risk, and a hard journey. Perhaps the Martells would simply hand her back to the Lannisters. Or perhaps they would imprison her and keep her for themselves.

But then Sansa recalled Prince Oberyn's fierce countenance and Ellaria Sand's brave eyes, eyes that looked directly into Cersei Lannister's face and _were not afraid._

By the time Sandor returned, Sansa had made up her mind. When he approached, a skin of water in each hand, she stood tall and looked him straight in the eye as she said, "We'll go to Dorne."


	10. Sandor V

**_Hello readers! I just wanted to say that I am *so sorry* for taking this long between updates! Thank you for all for the favorites and story folows and of course REVIEWS :) I absolutely appreciate every one of you, I swear! I wish I could say that I'll start updating as quickly as I used to, again, but unfortunately real life has kicked me while I'm down lately and I just haven't had time to keep up with this. But I promise I won't abandon it completely..._**

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><p><em>Dorne? What in the seven hells...<em>A million thoughts and questions flew through Sandor's mind, but when it came down to it all he could think to say was, "It's bloody hot in Dorne, little bird."

She cocked her head, _just like a damned little bird_. "Is that all you have to say about it, then?" She looked partially confused, but also a bit...pleased with herself, perhaps?

"Of course not," he snapped, taking a step back. He had no idea why he was so frustrated, except that this sudden decision of hers made little and less sense to him while apparently making all the sense in Westeros to her. "How are we supposed to get to _Dorne_, my _lady_?" Sansa glanced at Stranger, and Sandor laughed. "I think that's a bit too far for him to carry us. And the Marches...the Pass...it's dangerous territory in the best of times."

"I know," Sansa replied, biting her lip. "Or...well...I've heard...some. But we have to try, Sandor. They have Myrcella, and if they have _me..._"

Having been in Lannister service so long, Sandor well knew the hatred that the Martells harbored for that family. It was no secret, what his fucking _brother_ had done to Elia Martell...if the little bird was right in this, if they could find their way to Dorne despite the perils...Sandor reached up and squeezed one large hand over his temples, feeling the smooth side of his face under his thumb, the scarred side under his fingers. He was breathing heavily through his nose, knowing that he had to make this possible, if only for _her_...

A soft hand suddenly grasped his, pulling it away from his face, and he looked down at Sansa Stark. She was bedraggled and even a bit dirty, her eyes wide and her brow knitted together with concern, but he wasn't sure she'd ever looked more beautiful. "Will we go, then?"

Sandor heaved a sigh. "Aye, little bird. We'll go."

She smiled then, and he realized that every time she did _that_ she would always look more beautiful than she had any moment before – so long as her smiles were for him. When she wrapped her arms about him he gathered her up, felt her nuzzling his neck with her nose and lips and bent to cover her mouth with his. They were away from King's Landing, they had at least an _idea_of some place to go, and just now he needed this, needed her, and needed a few hours' worth of rest. But first...first...

He broke their kiss and glanced at the ground. When he looked back at the little bird, she had a wan smile on her face. "I suppose it's no worse than the godswood," she said softly, and with a growl of appreciation Sandor lowered himself onto the moss-coated dirt, pulling her down with him as gently as he possibly could. Sansa curled herself up against him and his hand found her breast, resting there for a moment as he searched out her mouth with his again. She sighed into their kiss, and the feel of it aroused him much as it ever had.

"Do we have time?" she asked. He could hear how exhausted she was and hated himself for wanting this so bad just now, especially when he knew that a bit of sleep would be the best thing for both of them.

"Not just now, little bird," Sandor admitted, and though she made a disappointed sound he could tell that her heart wasn't in it. "Sleep for a while. Stranger will alert us if he hears or sees anything out of the ordinary." Whether or not they would then have time...but no, he needed rest as much as she did. Sansa fell asleep first, though he knew he would not be far behind, and when he closed his eyes against the glare of the late morning sun Sandor was glad for one thing - that he would be drifting into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

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><p>Sandor woke mere hours later, for once glad that he was not used to sleeping more than a few hours a night. He lay there for some time, the little bird tucked next to him. Her mere presence made the hard ground seem far more comfortable than he knew it truly was. He had to wake her soon, he understood...but he also wanted a few moments to think about the long and arduous journey ahead of them.<p>

They would have to travel through the Reach; it was the fastest way to the Marches and the Prince's Pass. He doubted they had traveled far enough west to worry about moving due south; they should be able to avoid Bitterbridge and Ashford. If they could then cut back toward Summerhall and take the Boneway to Wyl, perhaps they would find a ship that would take them to Sunspear. It was their only hope, for he could not foresee them making it through the desert. Especially Stranger.

"Sandor?" the little bird whispered. "You're awake."

"Aye," he replied simply.

"Is everything all right?"

Sandor nodded. "I was just thinking on how we're supposed to get to Dorne," he admitted, gently extracting himself from her arms and climbing to his feet.

Sansa raised herself onto her elbows and looked up at him, chewing on her lip in what could only be nervousness. "And?" she asked.

He shrugged and ran his hand over his face. "No matter which way we go, it will be difficult. But I think we can move south through the Reach, then cut back east toward Summerhall and take the Boneway. If we are lucky we'll be able to catch a ship from the docks of House Wyl's seat, and make our way to Sunspear by sea. Otherwise..." _Otherwise it won't work_, he thought, but he couldn't say that out loud. Not now. Not to her.

"It's a good plan," Sansa replied softly, and when Sandor looked at her he could see the admiration in her eyes. _Only if it works. _But he kept that thought to himself, as well.

"We should be going, little bird," he finally admitted. She merely nodded in response, but was on her feet right away and ready to leave not long after. He placed her on Stranger's back and vaulted up behind her, checking the position of the sun before turning the destrier south.

They rode until long after day became twilight, and Sandor was thankful that the moon was full now of all times. He only stopped when he felt they could go no further; Sansa was again asleep in front of him and he was having trouble keeping his eyes open. But they were awake with the dawn to ride again the next day, and the next, and the one after that. It continued this way for just a few days shy of a fortnight, at which point they finally reached the ruins of Summerhall. It was twilight when they arrived, and Sandor suggested a stop.

"No one comes here anymore," he promised. _Robert Baratheon saw to that when he took his war hammer to Rhaegar Targaryen's chest on the Trident._

The little bird clutched the folds of her cloak in her hands and hugged herself. He could feel that she was shivering, though it did not seem so cold to him. "I don't like it here," she whispered.

"No," he said after a long moment's pause, during which the heavy silence of the cursed place seemed to engulf them, "nor do I. We'll go a bit further tonight."

As they rode away from the ruins, though, Sansa did turn back to look at what had once been Summerhall. "What really happened there?" she asked, her face screwed up in a sort of fearful curiosity.

"No one truly knows, little bird," Sandor replied - but then he found himself continuing, a ghost of a memory spurring him on, a memory of a sad woman and a little boy who'd once loved stories. "It was destroyed the day that Prince Rhaegar was born, by a great fire that killed King Aegon and several others. They say that the king was obsessed with trying to hatch petrified dragon eggs...that he lit a fire that got out of hand." Sandor couldn't help but shudder to think of the type of fire that fool king must have created to attempt such a feat as hatching centuries-old dragon eggs. "The Mad King believed that Summerhall was some sort of...herald, I guess, for Rhaegar's birth. And as Rhaegar grew, he took to visiting the ruins more and more often. Once he was gone, though..."

"No one comes here anymore," Sansa repeated. "How very sad."

"How very ridiculous," Sandor said scornfully. "Dragon's eggs. Fire. Aegon was near mad as Aerys toward the end, apparently...and a sad thing, that, because otherwise I was always told that he was well-loved, as a man and a king."

_Seven hells, I don't even sound myself. A fortnight with only this girl as company and I'm telling stories such as I claim to hate. _He could feel Sansa watching him, knew that she must wonder what had come over him…yet he refused to meet her gaze as they left Summerhall behind.

Soon the Red Mountains were rising up around them, far taller to their left than to their right. "Where are we?" Sansa finally asked, when they stopped one night and made camp. The sounds of this place were as unfamiliar to Sandor as they must be to her, and he could tell that she was frightened.

"The Boneway," he informed her. "We've another sennight or so before we'll reach the seat of House Wyl, so I'll not have you asking me where we are every damn day." Frustrated with himself, Sandor turned away from her. Why did he insist on being so short with her? He'd even taken to turning away from her kisses when they stopped to rest, though _that_...that was for her own good. Out here in the middle of nowhere – with gods only knew what ahead of them and the Lannisters or someone loyal to the Lannisters surely close behind – Sandor wasn't sure he could stop himself from taking the little bird, ruining her simply because he could, simply because he was afraid that if he didn't take her soon he'd never have her at all. He sensed her disappointment, of course...but he could not bring himself to explain his decision.

_She would try to convince you otherwise, anyway. Fuck, she'd probably offer herself up for the taking, stupid little bird._

But she wasn't stupid, and she wasn't truly a little bird anymore either - least not in the ways that had once led him to give her such a pet name.

"I haven't asked where we are but this once," Sansa suddenly piped up. "Why are you being so _difficult _these days?"

Sandor couldn't help himself; he spun back around and took hold of her wrists, yanking her up against him and bending so that they were close enough for their noses to touch. "Everything I do is done in the name of _your_ safety, little bird. I'd prefer you to remember that just now, and remember it when you're safe in Dorne under the protection of the Martells and no longer need your scarred old dog as a guard."


	11. Sansa V

She'd put up with it for as long as she could, but finally Sansa could no longer stand being...well, essentially _ignored_...by Sandor. She'd done nothing to deserve his poor treatment; she hadn't complained when he turned his back on her at night, when he began avoiding her mouth every time she tried to kiss him, when his responses to anything she said had started becoming shorter and shorter. His comment about not wanting her to "ask where they were every day" was simply the last straw - or so she thought. When he said what he said about her not needing him, though...part of her felt a bit heartsick for him. Another part wanted to laugh in his face.

"Not _need_ you?" she whispered, relaxing into his grip, already feeling a bit better for having something of an idea as to why he'd been acting so strangely. "Perhaps I will no longer need just any guard...but you are not just any guard, Sandor. You are the only person I've truly been able to trust in...in so long. And...well, and beyond that...you are more than just a guard to me. You _must _know that..." Sansa craned her head toward him as he tried to avoid meeting her eyes; finally she gave an exasperated sigh and quick as she could found his lips with her own.

At first it seemed that Sandor was going to protest - he set his mouth in a thin line and did not truly return her embrace for several moments - but Sansa persisted, leaning her weight against him, arching her back so that her breasts pressed into his chest, playing the tip of her tongue across his lips until with a frustrated grunt he allowed them to part just the tiniest bit. She kissed him without abandon until he finally _truly_ responded, releasing her wrists and gripping her hips instead, so hard that she knew his fingertips would leave bruises on her skin. Sansa relished that thought, because the idea of bruises left by him made her feel as if he was leaving his mark on her...and she wanted to be his, his, _his._

In the work of a moment Sandor had lifted her up, the better to kiss her she supposed, and Sansa wrapped her legs around his waist for balance. Her hips moved of their own accord, it seemed, rolling against him in a way that made her feel as if her very core was on fire.

Suddenly Sandor pulled his head back. "Little bird..." he said, the words sounding like something between a sigh and a groan. "I _can't_..."

Her heart began thumping in her chest - Sansa felt..._angry._ "Yes," she stated through clenched teeth, "you _can_."

He met her eyes and she saw a mixture of bemusement and self-loathing in his. "You don't know what you're asking for. You don't know that I can always hold back the way I did in the Red Keep. _There's no one here to hear you scream, girl._"

Sansa knew that he meant to sound threatening, but she almost wanted to laugh in his face. "If you'd taken me at the Red Keep and been caught doing so, or _having_ done so...Joffrey would have thought it the height of hilarity. He would have pardoned you, thinking you'd raped me well and good. He would have loved the fact that you took my maidenhead where Tyrion would - or _could_ - not. But you didn't force yourself on me, though at times you must have known I nearly wanted to…to make love to you...because you are not an animal, no more than you are an inanimate object. You are not a _dog_ or a _sword _- you are a man, a man with a strange kind of honor. Were you not, I would not be here now, with you, in your arms as I am."

As she spoke she brought her mouth closer and closer to his, mentally urging him to meet her with his own and nearly shuddering with happiness when he finally did just that. Sandor let her slip down just a bit, and she could feel the press of his erection against her woman's place. Sansa moved against him again, relishing the low growl that rose in the back of his throat in response to the rolling of her hips. She felt him take a fistful of her hair - most of her hair, if truth be told, for his hands were so _large _- but though his mouth did leave hers, he used his grip to pull her head back and bare her neck as he nipped his way down it.

For a moment his movements were uncharacteristically lumbering as he paused in frustration and had to lower her to the ground to trace her breastbone with the tip of his tongue, his fingers working at her travel-soiled gown as he fought to expose her breasts. She arched toward him, tried to reach up and help, but he shoved her hands out of the way and, cursing, finally managed to pull her clothing down around her waist.

When he took her in his mouth, nibbling lightly on her hard little nipple, Sansa couldn't help but moan in pleasure. Every part of her - _every_ part, including her heart and her mind - wanted more than anything to tell him to take her, take her _now..._but she knew that they must wait until they were safely in Dorne, until she'd had time to speak with Prince Doran about her situation – how she had been forced to wed Tyrion Lannister; how he had shown an unexpected sort of kindness in not taking her maidenhead. Doran Martell was known as a level-headed, thoughtful man; few people in the Seven Kingdoms could or _would_ help her now, yet she must hold out hope that he would be one of those who could _and _would. And for that, Sansa knew that she must go to him a maid.

_But that does not mean that we cannot enjoy ourselves, _she thought, a small smile playing across her lips as Sandor lowered his weight onto her and kissed her on the mouth again. The kiss suddenly reminded her of the last time they'd been together, when he'd used his mouth to bring her to completion – and Sansa found herself wondering if she should do the same for him. She drew her lips away from his and gently pushed him back, wriggling out from under him before he could weigh her down again. He looked frustrated at first, but she calmed him with a shy smile, biting her lip as she thought to ask whether...

_No. Best not ask at all_, she knew at once. Instead she reached for his breeches, surprised to see how deftly her fingers could unlace them now though it wasn't something she'd done so very many times. His frustrated expression had turned questioning just then, until she took his manhood from its confines and leaned forward, her brows knit together as she wondered how exactly she should go about this.

"I don't think so, little bird," Sandor chided, pulling back and shaking his head.

"But...you..._you _put your mouth on_ me_," she whispered, nearly horrified at what she was saying even as she knew it _must_be said.

"Aye, that I did, but you're no common whore and I'll not have you act like one," Sandor shrugged.

His response only served to frustrate her. "You'll not _have_ me 'act like one'?" Sansa hissed. "And what if I merely want to please you? Should I not be allowed to do so however _I_ choose?" As she said this she continued to lean toward him, stroking her hand slowly over his erection while refusing to take her gaze from his. There was anger in his eyes, a smoldering sort of anger that would have frightened her had she known him less, or had she not seen the _something else_ that sparked there as well. "_Please_," she finally whispered, yet still she was surprised when Sandor gave her a barely perceptible nod - more a jerk of his head, really, but it was the answer that she both wanted and needed and with just a moment's hesitation Sansa bent over him again.

Unsure, she first ran her lips up his length, brushing them gently against the satiny-soft skin. When she reached his tip she traced it with the edge of her tongue for a moment, before finally opening her mouth over him, slowly taking him in and reveling in the way that he shuddered at this particular type of kiss. She let him fill her mouth until she simply could not fit any more of his manhood in it; he was too large and she had to draw back slightly, though in doing so she ran her tongue up his length and was rewarded with his hands in her hair again and a shaky murmur. "_Little bird_..." he said, and gasped as she rewarded him by dipping her head again, wrapping her hand around his base until she was touching every part of his erection that she could possibly reach. Sansa herself was wet with desire, wanting more than anything for him to fill her the _proper_way though she knew that they musn't.

"Little bird," Sandor suddenly groaned again, "I won't...won't be able...to sustain this...much...much longer..."

Sansa drew back slowly in response, shocked that she actually wanted to _smile_ at the fact that she'd almost gained _control_ of him, in a way...but before she could take him fully in her mouth again Sandor shoved her away and rolled onto his side. She did not have time to react; he quickly reached for himself and stroked once, twice, then spilled his seed on the ground with a harsh growl. She started to extend her hand toward his back, but he was breathing heavily and seemed almost..._angry_...so Sansa stayed her hand, biting her lip and wondering what in Westeros she'd done wrong this time.


	12. Sandor VI

**__SO sorry for the huge time span between updates! I've had quite a bit of writer's block on this fic, unfortunately. I'm doing my best to not abandon it entirely though, promise :) Thank you for the reviews, all of you! I really appreciate them and honestly going back and reading through them helped me get these next two chapters written.**

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><p><em>Fuck<em>. Why, _why_ had he let her do that? Yes, she'd moved quicker than he'd thought possible, and once her mouth was on him he'd surrendered. He was only human, after all...no, he was only a _dog_. How was he supposed to face her now, knowing that she'd disgraced herself like that for _him_? He was sucking in air, trying to calm himself yet at the same time wondering why she'd not embraced him, not even _touched _him. Several long moments passed before he finally stood and tucked his cock away, lacing up his breeches and stomping off to pace at the edge of the clearing where they'd made camp. Part of him wanted to swing up onto Stranger's back and ride, or to stalk away amongst the trees and make an attempt at hunting down a late dinner...yet he knew that he could not go far, and that knowledge angered him all the more. He needed wine, gods be damned, and what little they'd brought had run out long ago.

_Another sennight of this nonsense_, Sandor couldn't help but think. _Well, I won't be letting her do _that_ again._

"Sandor?" the little bird's voice was tremulous, and though it took every bit of self restraint that he possessed, Sandor refused to turn and face her.

"Go to sleep, girl. We've still got quite a ways to ride, and I'll not have any complaints from you about being tired." Keeping his back to her, he moved toward Stranger and fumbled in the packs that they'd laid out near the destrier. Once he'd found the brush Sandor took to running it over his horse's black coat, telling himself the animal needed a good grooming anyway. He took his time, even braved Stranger's wicked kicks to check the horse's hooves for stones and caked dirt.

Eventually Sandor could no longer put off catching some rest of his own. He knew that Sansa Stark was not asleep - she was curled into a stiff ball, her back moving only slightly with her quick, wide-awake breaths. Sandor reached down and tugged his bedroll away from hers - just a short distance, though he saw the hitch in her breathing when she heard him doing it. _She needs to get used to there being space between us_, he reminded himself; but though he was tired – and sated from earlier, much as he hated to admit it - Sandor's sleep that night was fitful. When he awoke dawn had not yet broken, and he was drenched in a cold sweat. He did not remember having had his usual nightmares, yet he must have all the same...and just that vague knowledge left a sour feeling in his stomach that even their bland breakfast of porridge could not smother.

Thankfully the little bird was silent that day. He made her ride behind him for once, which helped in the way of not having her too close - and it took only a jerk of his head to stop her from laying just beside him that night. _Six more days_, Sandor told himself when he awoke the next morning, _less if we travel longer and faster whenever we can..._though what his rush was to reach the Martells, he could not say. They hated his brother Gregor, though certainly not as much as Sandor himself did - still, who was to say the Martells would not take him captive despite any chirps the little bird may make?

Who was to say they'd let him live at all? Pretty, courteous, and highborn she may be, but Sansa Stark was no skilled negotiator.

_You listened to her. _Listen_ to her._

Aye, but that was because he wanted something more from her. She was no hostage to him, and where he saw a young woman others would likely see a child, moonblood or no.

Deep down Sandor knew that he was simply _looking_ for things that could go wrong - anything, _everything_, that could go wrong. And yet _not_ doing so - even arriving at the seat of House Wyl unprepared, let alone arriving in Sunspear assuming that the little bird or himself - _especially _himself - would be treated as honored guests was idiotic to say the least. He repeated these thoughts to himself over and over as they rode that day, more than anything using them to keep at bay all of the feelings - physical and otherwise - that were brought on by the little bird's arms wrapped tight around him.

They must have been halfway to the seat of House Wyl, perhaps more - after _the incident_, which was the only way Sandor could think of those last intimate moments now - before Sansa Stark truly _spoke _to him. They stopped one night to make camp, and she procrastinated in laying out her bedroll until he had spread his own out. He thought she may try to lay hers beside his, but no...instead she laid her bedroll so that she would be head-to-head with him, and made herself comfortable. Eventually he lay down as well, flat out on his back with his hands cupped under his head...and when he did she reached for him, sliding her small soft hand into his until it was pillowing his head as well.

"Sandor," she whispered, and it was a statement, not a question.

He remained silent.

"Sandor...please speak to me. I can't bear you not doing so."

"Go to sleep," was all he could force himself to say in response.

"No," she stated, and then in a flash she had sat up and spun around, bracing her free hand on the ground just to the side of his left shoulder, pinning her legs around his waist.

"I'm not some wanton whore," Sansa Stark fairly snarled. "If you do not desire me, say as much...and I will leave you alone. There is no need for you to act so horrid."

"_Horrid_?" he spat. "Is that how I'm acting, then?" Sandor reached up and grasped her hips; she was so small, his hands so big, that his finger tips nearly touched over her belly. He began to guide her back and forth, as gently as he could, rising up to meet that place between her legs until he saw her close her eyes and begin breathing deeply. "I'll tell you what's _horrid_, Sansa Stark. Horrid would be me taking you now, as I've wanted to a hundred times these past months. _Horrid_ would be me ruining you before you can reach Dorne and ask for shelter, for help. What I'm being - and seven hells, fuck me, I can't understand why - is _honorable_."

"Yes," she sighed, then, "yes..." again. Though he was still gripping her, she was moving of her own accord now, and he had gone so hard that it was almost painful. She ground against him, faster, harder, and Sandor couldn't stop himself. He released her and yanked up her skirts, pulled them out of the way and then reached down to move her smallclothes. His hand was on her nub and he could feel that she was wet for him, so wet that it took every ounce of self-control - and admittedly, he usually did not possess much of _that_ - to not unlace his own breeches and shove his length inside of her. He pressed himself back into the ground, willing himself to obey, obey, _obey_, as he flicked at her hard little pearl with his thumb and forefinger and allowed her to grind her center against him. The little bird's head was thrown back, her mouth only slightly open in a silent cry of what he hoped was ecstasy...and then suddenly she was taut above him, her whole body like a wound-up wire wanting only to spring free...

Suddenly Sandor's body betrayed him and he pressed up against her. "Sansa..." he heard himself moan, a word full of more need than he'd thought he could ever express.

"Sandor," she breathed, rocking herself forward and then collapsing, pressing her chest against his so that through the thin, cheap fabric of her dress and his own worn, roughspun tunic he could feel her hard nipples. "Oh, gods, _Sandor_!" And then she twitched and shuddered and her hand was in his hair and her mouth was on his and their tongues were moving against each other and he felt himself let go.


	13. Sansa VI

How many times had she been with him now, how many times had she enjoyed herself to this point...and yet this time, _this time_, Sansa sensed that something was different. He wanted to scare her, as he had so many times in the past, yet his touch and his voice were almost _soft_.

_I must make him understand that I will not leave him. That I _cannot_ leave him, _Sansa realized.

_But how?_

And then he was moving her over himself, and she was feeling these sensations that were a hundred - no, a _thousand_- times stronger than any she had ever felt before. When she felt her pleasure fairly explode inside her and followed up that feeling by murmuring his name again and again and again, she knew what must come next...and yet she could not bring herself to say it. Not aloud, anyway.

_I love him. I love him, I love him, I love him!_

Just that knowledge was enough to give her pause. She was still married to Tyrion. She was still the only known Stark left alive to take over Winterfell.

And she must not arrive in Dorne as anything less than a maid.

Yet the way he made her _feel..._Sansa could not deny it. It wasn't just the physical aspects, though those were things she had never thought to expect considering all that her mother and Cersei had told or taught her. She was not sure just now if she would ever be able to follow her heart - yet she must hope that someday soon...

"Girl?" Sandor suddenly rasped, and she wanted to kiss him and curse him both, for speaking to her - and yet doing so in such a way.

Suddenly Sansa found herself mocking him. "_Girl_? Is that all I am to you, then? I'll show you a _girl_, Sandor Clegane." With that she reached around and pulled the simple peasant gown she'd been wearing over her head, exposing herself body and soul to this man who had somehow, unwittingly and likely un_willingly_, captured her heart. She sat astride him wearing only her smallclothes, her nipples hard little rosebuds in the chill night air, goose pimples raising on her skin. "Do I _look_ like a girl? You called me half a woman, months before you ever touched me as you did tonight...so am I full woman enough for you now? I would give myself to you if I could, yet you know that is not possible. You could take me by force if you wanted to do so, yet you haven't done it. You pleasure me, you give me endearing names, you call me by my _true_ name...and then you dare to call me _girl_?"

He was abashed; she could see it in his eyes...yet still he did not avoid her gaze, and for that Sansa was glad. They stared at each other for several long moments, but when he opened his mouth to speak she did so before he could.

"As soon as my marriage to Tyrion is annulled, we should wed," she told him. "A Stark married to another high lord is a danger; a Stark married to a man who is not even a knight is..." She paused, unsure of what to say.

"Nothing," he rasped, narrowing his eyes, daring her to defy him.

"No," she refused. "This is not nothing. You are not nothing. _We _are not nothing." When she bent to kiss him she expected him to refuse, expected him to deny her this, when she needed it so much.

But he didn't. He returned her embrace with all the fervor she put into it; returned it..._welcomed_ it, even. _I love you, I love you, I love you_, Sansa again found herself thinking...and yet she broke their kiss first, and still could not say those words to him. "You will do it, then? As soon as you can, you will marry me?"

"Haven't I already given you my cloak, girl?" he asked.

"Twice," she whispered, remembering how she had so very literally taken shelter in the folds of Sandor Clegane's cloak - _willingly_.

"Then you already have your answer."

Sansa slipped away from him then, to lie beside him, and after several tense minutes Sandor wrapped her in his embrace. When she felt his muscled arm pressed against her tummy, Sansa knew that she was safe. If they reached Dorne and could not find help there, they would flee again. He would cut down any who stood in their path.

_After all these years, he has more control over himself than you have over yourself_, she knew. _He will wait as long as you bid him...but _will_ you wait? _Can_ you wait?_

She knew that the answer to that question was no, yet she refused to let herself admit that - not yet, not _just _yet. If the Martells would not take them in, there were always the Summer Islands...a place where they would not be frowned upon for living together in love and love alone...

_Home_, she thought then, her heart aching for it in a way she'd never thought possible, at least not until after Joffrey'd had her father beheaded. She could thrive in Dorne, possibly even more so in the Summer Islands, but above all she wanted Winterfell. She wanted to be the Stark in Winterfell, with a husband of her choosing, and nothing else would ever suffice.

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><p>When dawn came it was chill and grey like every other morning, and Sansa only woke because she felt Sandor draw her close, felt him bury his head in her hair and make strange snuffling noises that could only mean he was <em>smelling <em>her. She gathered her courage and turned to face him, placing her palm over the side of his face that remained unscarred. During the weeks they had traveled a rough beard had grown there, and somehow its prickly feeling under her soft skin felt more right than anything else ever had.

"What do you want, little bird?" Sandor suddenly asked, somewhat gruffly.

_You,_ Sansa thought. _Only you._But what she said was, "Nothing. We should wake, though, and move on."

His eyes had been closed, but when she said this they snapped open. "Aye. I suppose you're right." In a flash he was on his feet, though she could see from the press of his breeches that he had gone hard, and Sansa smiled to herself. She wanted there to be time, _wished _there would be time...but there wasn't. They must press on, and in a few days at most they would reach the seat of House Wyl.

And then...

She did not like to think about what would happen then. Did not _want _to think about it.

Day blended into night, and night into day. They traveled, and though they were once again holding each other close, neither she nor Sandor made any move toward more. It was a companionship - a _relationship_, Sansa dared to think.

It was almost something like perfection.

But the inevitable happened sooner than she would like - they crested a low hill one day and the sea was shining before them in the late afternoon light. And standing before the vast expanse of water was House Wyl's stronghold, lying low and worrisome on the horizon - and beyond that, a small village, several piers, and ships. _Ships_, ships that could take them to Sunspear...

Sansa slid off Stranger's back and stepped forward, shading her eyes with one hand as she gazed across the small expanse of land that stood between them and the not-so-distant stronghold. She must have paused for longer than she realized, because eventually Sandor placed a hand on her shoulder, startling Sansa out of her reverie. She reached up almost automatically, covering his large hand with her own as best she could, and for several long moments they stood there like that in silence.

"It will be fine," she eventually murmured, though she knew that she was trembling, that he could feel her trembling, and that he would know she was lying.

"Aye," he agreed - a lie of his own, he who never lied. Sansa found herself grimacing at this, but forced herself to speak her next piece anyway.

"Should we get some rest, you think, and approach the Wyls tomorrow?" She peered up at the sky, feeling drenched in the late afternoon sun that would be gone all too soon. "It will be dark before we reach the gates, should we try to reach them today."

Sandor answered by first pulling his hand away with a grunt before saying, "I don't think so, little bird. If we were to make camp and someone were to stumble upon us, they'd be like to think we were sneaking around, trying to avoid capture or...who knows what they'd think, really, but it would be nothing good. Best we just...get this over with."

Sansa looked back over her shoulder at him, their eyes meeting in silent acknowledgement of the fact that the intimacy they'd known these past weeks was about to come to an end. But when she opened her mouth to speak, the only thing she could think to say was, "I suppose we should go, then." Sandor's nod was grim, and Sansa slipped her hand into his - whether to reassure him, or herself, she wasn't quite sure. He held it for a moment before quickly slipping his arms about her and lifting her onto Stranger's back, swinging up in front of her and digging his heels into the destrier's sides, as if any sort of hesitation needed to be left behind, and soon.

With a sigh Sansa laid her cheek against the broad back of this man who was her protector, her savior - this man who she _loved_. He had kept her safe so far; she knew that he would do everything in his power to continue to do so.

She just hoped that they would not have to fight or flee. _Anymore_.


	14. Sandor VII

Sooo somehow I was able to get these chapters down so soon after just posting 11 & 12! I can't promise that I'll continue to be this fast, but I hope y'all continue to enjoy :) And thanks again for reading and for all of the wonderful reviews!

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><p>He knew that it was over, no matter what the little bird chirped about marriage, no matter how she grasped his hand or buried her face in his back as they rode. <em>Over, over, over<em>.

Of course, it had always _had_ to end. Some day, some time. Once they were back in proper society there could be no more clandestine trips to a godswood, no more holding her close for warmth as they slept beneath tree boughs or stars.

It wouldn't have been the intelligent choice, it wouldn't have been the _right_ choice, but suddenly Sandor found himself wishing that he'd taken her up on her offer to wait until tomorrow to approach the Wyls. She was right; by the time they reached the gates the sun had disappeared completely and even the purple of twilight had become the dark blue of early night. It was eerily quiet, too, which he did not particularly care for. _Not just quiet. _Too _quiet._

Sansa must not have been able to tell that anything was wrong, for if she'd known that it shouldn't have been quite this silent she would have been quaking with fear. But Sandor's senses were those of a warrior, in tune with his surroundings even when those surroundings were strange or new - no, _especially _when those surroundings were strange or new. "Hold tight to me now, little bird," he whispered, "just in case." And then he took hold of the reins in one hand and drew his sword with the other just as a rustle of leaves and branches and the soft footfalls of several men reached his ears.

"And who might you be?"

There were a dozen men surrounding them, perhaps more. The one who spoke was wearing the yellow and black armor of the House, so far as Sandor could tell. The dim flicker of the not-so-distant torches stuck in their sconces on the wall that surrounded the unassuming stronghold did not offer the best lighting.

"A guard. For the lady here," Sandor growled, jerking his head toward Sansa. There was no use in trying to hide her or in pretending that she didn't exist; he could sense that there were men behind him as well, and he cursed himself for exposing her so. The little bird squeaked in fright.

"And what lady is that? A lady of the night?" the man asked, and the other guards chuckled.

Sandor opened his mouth to reply, but the lady herself cut off his words. He felt her move, leaving only one arm grasping his waist, as she stated loud and clear, "I am no 'lady of the night', _sers_. I am Sansa of House Stark, heir to Winterfell, and this is my sworn shield. I come seeking refuge for the night, and passage on the morrow by ship - to Sunspear." And before Sandor could stop her she had slid from Stranger's back, and he saw that her hood was already pushed off her head, exposing her tell-tale auburn locks.

"Sansa _Lannister_, you mean," the guard replied, eying her suspiciously. The little bird's shoulders stiffened, but after a tense moment she shrugged them.

"Fair enough. However, I was forced into that marriage, and it was never consummated anyway. Hence why I would like passage to Sunspear, where I may seek counsel with Prince Doran Martell and prove as much, in hopes of having that marriage annulled."

Gods, but she sounded the mature, intelligent highborn woman just now. The man who had spoken, the obvious leader, looked uncomfortable, even concerned, while the others appeared to think that there was no danger in these visitors. Many had sheathed their swords; those who hadn't were at least no longer standing at attention.

"Well?" Sansa needled. "Will you bring me to your Lord, or must I wait here all night while you decide whether a young woman and a single man can wreak havoc on your stronghold?" Sandor had to bite back a chuckle, though at the same time he wanted to give her a good smack for her impertinence.

At least until it turned out that impertinence apparently worked with these fools. "We'll ask your...guard...to hand over his sword. One of my men will take his horse to the stables - "

"Good luck with that," Sandor snorted. The little bird turned and glared at him, mouthing the word "Hush".

"As I was saying," the guard continued, obviously annoyed, "your guard must hand over his sword. We'll take care of his horse. No harm will come to you so long as you are telling the truth of these matters."

"And I will be afforded passage on a ship to Sunspear at first light?" _Good girl, don't let them forget about that bit._

"That's up to Lord Wyl," was the man's firm reply. For a long moment Sansa remained silent, and when Sandor looked at her he saw that her eyes were narrowed, her lips pursed, obviously considering those words.

"Very well," she finally sighed. She nodded to Sandor and with a low snarl he shoved his sword at the guard, silently reminding himself that the little bird had a knife tucked somewhere about her person, and that he had daggers in his belt and boots. Not as good as sword, these, but they'd make do if they had to. Sandor noted everything that he could about these men, about the walls they passed under, the gates they passed through. Escape, should it be necessary, would not be easy...but he watched them lead a skittering, snorting, kicking Stranger to the stables and marked where the destrier disappeared. The stronghold itself was small, a low main building with a couple of pathetic towers, and by the sheer silence of the place and the few guards who had met them Sandor was sure it was lightly garrisoned.

He'd certainly fought his way out of worse situations.

Though he knew that it wasn't seemly, he laid his hand on the small of Sansa's back as they walked - as much to reassure himself as to reassure her, although he never would have admitted as much. Not out loud. Once inside, they were led to a small hall. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth at the far end of the room, and Sandor's stomach grumbled at the sight and smell of the food laid out on the table. "My lord, you have...visitors. Of a sort," the guard announced. His men spread out behind them, blocking the door. At the far end of the table, seated close to the fire, were a man not much older than Sandor himself, a plain but kindly looking woman of about the same age, and a handful of children - the oldest no more than sixteen, the youngest perhaps the age of Sansa's crippled brother.

"Do we now?" Lord Wyl was curious; he stood and moved toward them and Sansa curtsied prettily for him.

"More refugees than visitors, my lord. I am Sansa of House Stark, heir to Winterfell and a captive of the Lannisters in King's Landing these many, many months. This man swore himself to me and helped me to escape some weeks ago, and I am here to beg for passage to Doran Martell in Sunspear, where I hope to find a friendlier and safer place from which to plan my return to my ancestral home in the North."

Lord Wyl glanced at Sansa, and this one quick look seemed enough for him to assess the truth of who she was. Then he looked to Sandor and narrowed his eyes. "I know who _you _are, Sandor Clegane, though I must admit that I am shocked to see you in such fine company."

_Of course you know who I am, half-wit. Who else in Westeros can boast my size _and _my scars? _But Sandor kept these thoughts to himself and merely grunted his acknowledgement.

"I assure you that Clegane here is now loyal to me and me alone," Sansa spoke up, her voice icy, almost disdainful. "Why that is so, well...to be truthful it is none of your business. But _I_trust him, and that is what matters. I promise to not burden you with our presence for very long. I ask only a comfortable place for us to rest, and your help in securing a ship that will take us to Sunspear as soon as possible. On the morrow, if it please you. My lord."

"And what of your husband, Tyrion the Imp of House Lannister?" Lord Wyl replied shrewdly.

"He is no true husband of _mine_," was Sansa's cold response.

"I am glad to hear it, considering he stands accused of murdering his nephew the king." Lord Wyl was practically smirking now. "Still, I think it best that I send a raven to Prince Doran, and await his reply before siccing you and your dog on his House."

"I would prefer you not do that, in fact." Sansa stood straight and tall, locking eyes with this man who was old enough to be her father - who, judging by the passel of children at the table, had produced some of them before she'd even been born. "Ravens can be intercepted, my lord. And besides, I assure you that we mean House Martell no harm. In fact, I am certain that the Prince would be almost delighted to see me. For sure, he could even call me his prisoner, should he wish to do so. Anything would be better than remaining in King's Landing to be mocked by Cersei, looked down upon by Margaery Tyrell, and beaten by Joffrey's guards."

"_King_ Tommen's guards, now," Lord Wyl said softly, and then he sighed. "I suppose you are in the right about the raven, and having you here for any length of time is more of a liability than I wish to deal with just now. You will have your ship, tomorrow if we can find one, and I will send you and your - _sworn shield_- to our ruling house. Some of my guards will attend you, just to be...safe...and Prince Doran can decide what to do with you once you arrive."

Sandor noted that Sansa could barely hide her relief, and tried to do so by dropping into another low curtsy. "Thank you, my lord. Again, I request only a comfortable place where Clegane and I may sleep for a while, and some food and drink if you can spare it. I do not wish to be of any more trouble to you or your family."

Lord Wyl gave a curt nod. "Of course. My lady wife's chief handmaiden will show you to one of our guest chambers. Clegane may sleep just outside the door, if he wishes, and - "

"No. Thank you," Sansa interrupted. "Clegane will sleep just _inside _the door, if you will find a pallet for him. I prefer to keep him close, as he is the only person I have been able to trust for quite some time."

"Very well," Lord Wyl agreed, though not without some reluctance. "Sarai, if you please. And Willem, please attend our...guests...and make sure that they don't need anything which Sarai cannot provide."

It had all gone quite a bit better than Sandor had expected, though now that he'd seen the full power of what he'd once thought of as Sansa's stupid little courtesies, it was clear to him how she had survived this long. Still, to insist he stay _in_ the room _with _her...that was a bit much. Lord Wyl must certainly think so, anyway.

But what harm could possibly be done? They would be gone in the morning, they would be on the last step of their treacherous journey to Dorne...and he'd best stop being concerned over one night in this place with these people, and begin worrying about what would happen once they were finally in the hands of the Martells.


	15. Sansa VII

She'd done her very best to appear a woman, a true lady, to Lord Wyl...and apparently something – or everything – that she had done had worked. As the handmaiden and the guard - _Sarai and Willem_, Sansa reminded herself, wanting to remember their names so that she could properly thank them - led them down a long, narrow passage and up a set of winding stairs to a guest room high up in one of the towers, Sandor continued to glance around suspiciously. She was at once amused at and grateful for his caution, and after the harrowing hour or so that they'd just endured she wanted more than anything to be swept into his arms, to feel his lips on hers.

Unfortunately, at the last moment Lord Wyl had decided that if Sandor was to sleep in the room with her, the handmaiden Sarai must do so as well. _Propriety_, he had called it, and though Sansa had of course agreed, inside she was practically seething. She'd had to take a deep breath and tell herself that this was how it would be from now on - that no respectable house would allow her and Sandor the closeness, the intimacy, the _privacy_, that they'd had in the godswood at King's Landing or during their many nights on the road to the seat of House Wyl.

Though it was clear that they were to be housed in a chamber befitting Sansa's station, she could not help but note how far they had climbed up into the tower. The windows here had no panes - probably they didn't need them, not this far south - but they were high on the walls and so narrow that while she could possibly squeeze out of one of them, Sandor certainly couldn't. And even if she _were _able to scramble up to one of the tall, narrow slits in the wall, how would she get down to the ground once she'd slipped through it?

Sandor must have caught her eying the windows, for he chuckled darkly and leaned in close to her ear. "Looking for escape routes too, I see." Sansa grimaced, and he continued, "We'll figure it out if we have to, but don't think for a second that they don't know what they're doing, putting us up in this particular room."

Willem the guard suddenly cleared his throat. "Pardons, my lady," he said, "but now that you're here in the room, I must go find a pallet for your man and a kitchen maid to bring you food and drink. Will you be needing anything else?"

"No, thank you," Sansa waved him off. "Once we have eaten I think we will be more than ready to sleep. I'll need a bath in the morning, though...if that's possible. It's been some time since I had a proper one." Though she'd bathed in a stream the day before, the water had been almost brackish, and she still felt positively grimy...but she was too tired to wait for a tub and water just now, so tired that she could not stop her eyes from wandering to the bed over and over again as Willem spouted a few more courtesies and promises to return soon with bedding for Sandor and food for them both. The girl, Sarai, settled herself in a chair by the fire, eliciting a glare from Sandor that thankfully only Sansa noticed. After all, the poor maid couldn't help that she'd been assigned to keep watch over them.

Soon a straw pallet - musty, but clean - arrived in the arms of Willem and another guard. They laid it on the floor just to the left of the doorway and took their leave, though only a few minutes later a plump, almost pretty young woman arrived, carrying a platter of thin, almost sweet-smelling breads, a sort of brown paste with a garlicky tang, a bowl of cheese crumbles whose taste seemed to sit in the back of Sansa's nose, some rich dark olives and a jug of strongwine that she and Sandor enjoyed overmuch. By the time the fire had died down to mere embers and the candles had been blown out, Sarai was snoring softly in her chair and it took every bit of self-restraint Sansa possessed to place only a single gentle kiss on Sandor's scarred cheek and slide under the coverlets of her own bed. She listened to him divest himself of most of his clothes and lower himself onto the rustling straw pallet, but after laying there for quite some time his breathing still hadn't slowed and deepened, and she knew that he still hadn't fallen asleep, either.

Sarai, on the other hand, was still snoring - and making quite a bit more noise than she had been, to boot. All Sansa could think of just now was how she wished to be laying at Sandor's side. She imagined him running his hand over her thigh, cupping her bottom, gently pressing his fingers into her folds...these thoughts were almost maddening; she could feel the familiar hot pressure begin to build in her woman's place, and eventually she simply couldn't take it anymore.

Sansa slipped out of her bed as silently as she could, creeping across the room and hoping that she would not bump into or trip over anything. Thankfully, the first and only thing her foot connected with was the edge of Sandor's pallet, and when she felt her toes hit it she immediately crouched down and slid onto the bed next to him.

"What are you doing, little bird?" Sandor asked, his voice a low rumble with more than a hint of warning to it.

"Hush," she murmured, pressing her body against his side and reaching for his manhood. He was wearing some sort of smallclothes, but they were loose enough and she was able to slide her hand down inside to find him already hard for her. Sansa couldn't help but automatically roll her hips against him, until with a sudden but soft growl Sandor slid one arm under her, tucking his hand into her smallclothes as well, running it gently over her arse until his long fingers reached between her thighs to tease her already-wet opening. She breathed a soft sigh into his ear, wishing he could speak to her, or her to him…but she knew that if they were to play like this they must remain as quiet as possible. She cupped her hand around his member and worked at him, so slowly that she worried her motions were more of a tease than anything else...unfortunately, even the slightest of movements caused the straw beneath them to rustle...

Suddenly Sandor jerked away from her, and for a moment Sansa wondered if she'd done something wrong - but no, he rolled onto his right side and reached for her with his free arm, then used his grip to spin her around, lifting her just slightly off the mattress to lessen the amount of noise these movements made. He then hugged her against himself, pressing his cock in the cleft of her bottom as he reached down the front of her smallclothes and began working his fingers over the little pearl of flesh that had become a nub hard with arousal. He was so practiced at this now as to be almost deft, and the feel of his calloused fingertips circling this most sensitive spot combined with the pressure of his erection nestled between her arse-cheeks quickly drove Sansa into a frenzy. She found herself arching her back, for doing so simultaneously increased that divine pressure caused by his cock _and _the urgency of his fingers between her legs.

Somehow the fact that they needed to be as silent as possible made it all feel even more intense, especially when Sansa had to bite back the maddening desire to moan, to pant, to speak his name. Instead she buried her face into the rough cloth of the pallet, buried it until she almost couldn't breath, and suddenly, with little of the buildup that she had come to expect from all their times together, her body convulsed in its pleasure, forcing her to clench her thighs _and _her teeth as tears came to her eyes due to the sheer strength of this physical completion. Sandor clearly realized what was happening, for he suddenly stilled his fingers over her nub, pinching it and moving with her as she rolled through her finish until suddenly he bit down on her shoulder, hard enough that she nearly cried out, his body trembling violently for a few moments before he stilled and quickly pulled his mouth away from her.

They lay there for some time, she still wrapped in his arms, though quite a bit more loosely than before. Sansa felt herself drifting off to sleep, her body sated, exhausted, happy to be held by this man...but Sandor was clearly more concerned about the other person in the room, for eventually he released his hold on Sansa and pushed her away from him, not ungently. "Go to your own bed, little bird. We don't want to ruin the good luck we've had here by being discovered sleeping together. Half naked," he added, as if that would matter so much were they to be found in such a compromising position in the first place. Sansa sighed, but she knew that he was right; and so, brushing a soft kiss across his forehead, she slid out of his bed, tiptoed across the room, and climbed back into her own. Her whole body was still pulsing with warmth - and gods, was it still _need_, somehow?

One thing was for certain; she would _definitely_ need that bath tomorrow morning.


	16. Sandor VIII

**Hokay SO. November is going to be a seriously insane month for me, which means the chances of this fic seeing an update at any point between now and December are basically nonexistent. And I apologize in advance for that :) But for now, enjoy two quick non-porny chapters?**

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><p>Gods, but he hated himself for having to force the little bird back to her own bed. Could she ever understand how very badly he wanted to wrap his arms about her and sleep with her as they'd been used to doing? But it didn't matter - <em>couldn't <em>matter. Not now that they were back in so-called 'proper society'.

It was bad enough that they'd done what they'd done with that snoring fool of a maid in the room. Mere feet away from them. True, he'd not thought he could feel his pleasure so strongly just by pressing himself against Sansa, unable to share kisses, she unable to even reach around and touch him due to the position in which he'd arranged her. But he had peaked as strongly as ever - perhaps it had been even more intense than other recent times.

She surprised him every day, this little bird - _his _little bird.

The memory of their little - err - _adventure_ - during the night kept Sandor awake quite a bit longer than he'd wished, and when morning finally arrived he felt heavy with exhaustion despite having slept under a roof _and_ on a pallet for the first time in weeks. _You must be alert, ready to grab her and run the moment something - _anything_ - seems amiss, _he reminded himself.

And so many things could still go wrong. For instance, once they were on a ship they were completely at the behest of the Wyls, who could very well send them anywhere _but _Sunspear...and what was to stop them doing so, other than their claim of loyalty to the Martells? The Martells, who had been at odds with the Lannisters since Robert's Rebellion...

Therefore, what truly mattered was whether the Wyls were more apt to be loyal to their own ruling house, or to the house that was supposed to have rule over all Westeros. This was not something that Sandor cared to leave up to chance, yet the idea of broaching such a subject with Lord Wyl - or even any of his men - seemed impossible.

A kitchen wench came knocking not long after dawn, carrying a tray spread with fruits, cheeses, the same bread they'd eaten the night before, and nearly parchment-thin slices of a salty pink meat. A pot of cold tea steeped with mint leaves was there as well, and though Sandor nearly spit the vile stuff out when he took a sip, Sansa seemed to enjoy it just fine. At least, she smiled at him when he shoved his little clay cup of it toward her, and drank that as well as her own.

After placing the tray down for them, the kitchen wench and Sarai bent over the hearth in an attempt to coax flames from the long-dead fire, but Willem the guard appeared at the door to their chamber before the fire had time to begin crackling merrily in its grate again.

"There's been a stroke of something like luck in finding you passage on a ship, my lady," he said with a curt bow. "Not three days past a small cog had to make an unplanned stop at our port to attend to damage one of its masts received in a storm. They finished their repairs yesterday and will be leaving with the morning tide. Lord Wyl has graciously waved their portage fees in return for their carrying us on to Sunspear, as they were sailing 'round that way to stop in Old Town anyway."

Sandor supposed that he should be pleased at such news, but his mind had locked on to just one word that had left Willem's mouth - "us". "What d'ye mean, _us_?" he growled, though in doing so he suddenly realized how uncouth he sounded.

"At the moment I happen to be the highest-ranking guard of the Wyl household," Willem replied blandly. "As such, I am the only one to whom Lord Wyl feels comfortable delegating this task."

Though he wasn't quite sure why he felt so uneasy about the idea of this Willem accompanying them, Sandor still couldn't help but open his mouth to spit out a retort - until the little bird kept him from doing so by placing a hand on his arm and giving the guard one of her sweet smiles. "Lord Wyl must be informed that we are honored to be given such an important member of his household for our escort."

"You can tell him yourself, my lady - Lord Wyl has already made his way to the docks. He awaits us there, and means to see us off…so we should be leaving the holdfast as soon as possible, if it please my lady."

Sansa was all smiles. "Very well. If you would give my sworn shield and I leave to finish our breakfast and gather our few belongings, we will be ready to depart shortly."

But Sandor had a few other things in mind, and with as capably as Sansa had acted yesterday he was surprised that she was forgetting to ask so many questions. "Where does this ship - and its captain - hail from? And will we be able to take my horse?" The thought of leaving Stranger behind irked him, considering all he'd been through with that damned animal. _All_ we've_ been through_, he reminded himself, glaring at Sansa.

Willem merely waved him off. "Somewhere in Essos; I can barely understand the man, myself. As for your horse, there is a small area for livestock in the hold of this cog and thankfully they have few animals aboard. They'll take him, though _you'll_have to control him." The guard's eyes darkened when he spoke of Stranger, and Sandor chuckled.

"So he gave your men some trouble, did he?"

"Yes, if you must ask - he bit three of them and kicked one. You could have warned us of his temper, _ser_."

"I'm no ser," Sandor replied flippantly, feeling much more generous to this man now that he knew how much havoc Stranger had wreaked in his stead.

The guard raised an eyebrow at Sandor's comment, but seemed to think better of responding to him. Instead Willem turned back toward Sansa and gave another bow, less curt than the first, more fluid and meant to flatter and please - even Sandor could see as much, and he felt a hot rush of jealousy. "We will await you in the yard." Willem flashed a handsome smile at Sansa, then cut his eyes toward Sandor with a look that could only be described as mocking. Sandor let loose a low, rumbling grow, but before he could step toward the other man and show him what happened to those who mocked Sandor Clegane, Willem had spun on his heel and disappeared through the door.

"Must you be so tetchy toward those who are trying to _help_us?" Sansa asked, obviously exasperated.

"Well _my pardons_, little bird. I've no reason to trust these people completely - not yet - and neither do you. We're better off keeping them all at arms' length. Even if Lord Wyl means you well, who's to say that the captain of this ship - or fair Willem himself - won't turn around and sell you back to the Lannisters? Mark my words, if they truly believe that the Imp murdered Joffrey, they're out for you as well."

For a moment Sansa had the intelligence to look frightened, but then it was as if a mask dropped down over her features and she gave him a stony look. "I'm sure you're right," she admitted, "but I cannot spend the rest of my life trusting you and _only _you, Sandor."

"You'd be better off if you did," he rasped, hoping that she would hear the snarl hiding beneath his words and take it for the warning that it was.

She didn't. "Is this the way things will be, then? Forever and ever? Me just trying to make it from one day to the next, and you thwarting me at every turn with your...your..._uncivilized_ behavior? I won't - no, I _can't_ - have it, Sandor! In case you didn't notice last night, my courtesies, which you so clearly despise, gained us access to this stronghold, a warm and comfortable place to sleep, good food..._and a ship that will bring us to Sunspear_! None of that, _none _of it, is thanks to _you_!"

A small part of Sandor felt chastened; the larger part of him was merely _angry_. He was a grown man, and a dangerous one at that - pretty little Sansa Stark never would have gotten this far without him, yet she spoke to him as if he was a child.

_Or a servant._

"Maybe none of _that_ is thanks to me, little bird, but I hope you don't think you made it all this way of your own accord. Still, if you'd rather fine Ser Willem keep you safe from here on in, I'd be more than happy to oblige," Sandor heard himself growl. _Gods, shut _up_, you arse, you don't want that, any of it, don't want to leave her side and don't want her to rely on that thrice-damned _Ser _Willem_.

Yet somehow he could not bring himself to say as much, not even when Sansa gazed up at him with a trembling lower lip and eyes brimming with tears. Of course, she did not take back her awful words either; both of them were simply too proud to do anything of the sort just now. They gathered their very few belongings in silence, and Sandor wondered if, after such a row, the little bird would be inclined to actually dismiss him from her service.

_It's probably for the best, anyway. _Deep down, he was sure of that much, at least.


	17. Sansa VIII

Oh, he was just so...so..._awful_, sometimes! She'd been awful as well, of course, but only because he'd been so very _rude_ to Ser Willem, threatening to undo the good she'd done. Still, Sansa knew that she ought to apologize to him...yet just now she couldn't bring herself to say the words, especially not after he'd outright offered to leave her. Is that what he truly wanted, then? _Could_ he truly want it, especially now that they couldn't share what they'd shared when it was just the two of them, alone in their travels? She certainly did not want him to feel _obliged_ to stay with her, not if he didn't truly _want _to do so...

_Stop it, stop it, stop it!_ Sansa did not know why she was thinking these things; she _knew_, despite his obvious disinclination to say the actual words, that Sandor loved her. They'd had an argument, that was all, and soon they would have a moment alone - just a moment, that's all they would need, and they would murmur apologies and perhaps share a kiss and all would be fine. Sansa took this idea and tucked it away, hoping that when the time came Sandor would have calmed down a bit as well. She did not know if she could bring herself to apologize were he to insist on continuing their argument.

Or even worse, what if he continued to threaten to leave her? That, Sansa knew, she could not stand at all.

"My lady? Are you all right?"

Sarai was at the door, a fine gown draped across her arms. Sansa realized with a start that Sandor was watching her warily from a few feet away; she must have been standing there musing on these things for more than a few moments.

"Yes, I...I'm fine," she lied. "I merely lost my train of thought. But what is this?" She spoke over Sandor's snort, feeling herself tense at the noise and at how he crossed his arms over his chest, and focused on the gown. It was made of a deep blue silk, with some fine embroidery about the neckline and the edge of the skirt.

"It belonged to Lady Wyl, but if it pleases you she would like you to have it. Pardons, my lady, but she says that when you meet Prince Doran Martell, you may want to have something a little...nicer...to wear."

Glancing down at the stained and bedraggled gown she was wearing, and thinking of the only other one she had packed upon fleeing King's Landing, which was in even worse condition, were that possible, Sansa could not help but agree. "How kind of Lady Wyl," she breathed, smiling beatifically. "Please, you must thank her for me, as I fear I will not see her before we leave this place."

"You are correct, Lady Stark. Lady Wyl offers her apologies, but she has household duties to attend to and will not be able to see you off. She sends her regrets along with this gown."

Another snort from Sandor. This time Sansa turned her head in his direction and glared at him, but his only response to her chiding look was a small smirk. With a sigh of frustration she faced Sarai again and gently took the gown from the maid's arms. "I will pack it most carefully, and I will think quite fondly of Lady Wyl when the time comes for me to present myself to Prince Doran and I actually have something proper to wear." Sarai smiled at Sansa, but her eyes flicked to Sandor as she bowed herself out of the room, and it took every bit of self-control Sansa possessed to not snap at him once they were alone again. Instead she did her best to wrap the gown properly amongst her belongings, and when she was finished she muttered, "It is past time for us to leave this place."

"I'd say so," Sandor rasped, and though she tried to pretend it was because he saw how light it had grown, how much of the morning had already passed, Sansa heard the bite of rancor in his voice and once again had to steel herself against it. Without another word to him, she marched out of the room and down the winding tower stairs, until she reached the base where Ser Willem was waiting in the hall for them. The guard offered Sansa his arm, and without a second thought she placed her hand on it, unable to stop herself from imagining how furious Sandor likely was just now, walking along behind her as she touched this knight and even made small talk with him.

"Will you remain at Sunspear long, Ser Willem?" she asked, smiling up at him as flirtatiously as she could manage. For a moment the guard seemed taken aback by her sudden attentions to him, but he quickly composed himself and gave her a winning grin.

"I suppose that depends, Lady Stark - on how well you are received, and whether it turns out that you will be safer somewhere else. That is the only charge I've been given, after all - to keep you safe."

"My mother was Lady Stark, Ser Willem, so you should call me Lady Sansa. And I shall welcome your advice once we arrive at Sunspear; I know next to nothing of the Martells, having only spent brief periods of time with Prince Oberyn and his paramour Ellaria. They, however, were always quite kind to me."

"I should think you have nothing to worry about from Prince Doran, though his daughter Arianne and the Sand Snakes may pose more of an issue. I fear they will not take kindly to your sworn shield, him being a Clegane." This last bit was said quite softly, though it would not surprise Sansa if Sandor had heard Ser Willem's words. She almost glanced over her shoulder at him - _almost_. She stopped herself from doing so just in time, instead moving her head close to Ser Willem's in a conspiratorial manner.

"I assure you that Sandor Clegane despises his brother as much - if not more than - anyone else in all Westeros. He is quite loyal to me, and if Prince Doran is as thoughtful as everyone claims him to be, my sworn shield should be accepted for what he is - my guard." _A part of my life. No, more than a part - all of it, everything that I live for._And now she could not stop herself looking round at Sandor, who met her gaze with angry eyes that had, if she was not mistaken, a hint of hurt in them…which could only be a response to her momentary betrayal.

It made her..._sad_, seeing that sudden weakness in him. Was she - could she be - _bad _for Sandor, then? Would handling Prince Doran and his daughter and these so-called Sand Snakes be as easy as handling Lord Wyl had been? She guessed not, yet she suddenly could not help but question whether she was perhaps bringing Sandor to a place where he would be vilified for who he was, regardless of what he was to her, regardless of how much she trusted and needed him...

Once they were outside Sansa quickly excused herself from Ser Willem on the pretense of allowing her sworn shield to accompany her to the ship. At first Sandor merely stiffened when she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, but as soon as they had collected Stranger and Ser Willem's horse from the stables, she was mounted in front of him once again and he had no choice but to surround her with his arms and allow her to lean back against his chest. The guard rode in front of them - _thank the gods _- and as soon as Sansa was assured that Ser Willem was not paying them any mind she wiggled her arse against Sandor's groin, relishing in his frustrated grunt when his manhood immediately began to harden.

"Stop it, little bird," Sandor warned, his arms stiff on either side of her, pressing almost uncomfortably into her rib cage.

"I will _not_," Sansa replied petulantly, though she hoped he knew that she was teasing.

"This isn't a very long ride, _Sansa_. Wouldn't want to spoil things by climbing off this horse with my cock practically poking out of my breeches."

"You wouldn't, maybe," she smirked, leaning to the left and laying the right side of her head against his chest so that she could look up at his face. "But I for one would find it quite amusing."

"And do you think Lord Wyl would find it amusing? What do you think he'd do first, label you a whore or take me aside for...questioning?" The last word came out as more of a grunt than anything else, for in the pretext of straightening her cloak Sansa had reached around and run her knuckles up and down the side of his erect manhood. She _knew_ that she shouldn't be doing it, truly she did, yet she also knew that she _wanted_ Sandor, perhaps even more so now, at this moment, when she knew that he was angry with her. "Little bird, _please_," he growled, his voice soft, even strangled-sounding.

Sansa looked ahead and saw the masts of the few ships in the small port rising above the low buildings that were crowded around the pier, and with a sigh she forced herself to ignore the warm throbbing in her nether regions and remove her hand from between Sandor's legs. "I apologize," she murmured, though she only partly meant it. Of course she didn't want to get herself or Sandor in trouble; she did, however, wonder how well she was truly going to be able to adjust to not being able to touch or kiss Sandor whenever she wished to do so.

Especially when she wanted to do those things far more often than not.

Regardless of whether or not the time was _proper _to be doing them.

Like now, for instance.

"Sit farther forward," Sandor ordered. Biting her lip in frustration, Sansa obeyed, and she felt him adjusting himself in the saddle behind her. "Little bird, you'll be the death of me," he mumbled.

_And you of me, if I can't stop acting so wanton around you all of the time_, Sansa mused...but just then they finally rode out onto the open stretch of ground that lay between the lapping waves and the handful of port buildings. Everything looked so different here, compared to where King's Landing met Blackwater Bay...it nearly took her breath away. Ser Willem was dismounting, and nearby she saw Lord Wyl deep in conversation with a small and weathered man who could only be the captain of the ship that was to take them to Dorne. When he saw that they'd arrived, Lord Wyl lifted his hand in greeting and excused himself from his parley with the seaman.

"Ah, good. You're a bit early, but they should be ready to set sail before the tide goes out." Lord Wyl eyed them both, still mounted on Stranger though Ser Willem had dismounted. "Lady Sansa, is everything all right?"

"Oh yes, yes, of course," she replied, sliding off Stranger's back without Sandor's help. She glanced up at him; he rolled his eyes and followed her lead, though he took several moments to loosen the destrier's girth and, she guessed, to compose himself.

"Captain Yavin Marsh here will see you to your destination, then," Lord Wyl promised with a bow. "And as you already know, I am sending Ser Willem with you as a safeguard."

Sansa nodded. "Thank you for everything you've done, Lord Wyl. Your kindness and your assistance in this matter will not be forgotten."

"Best of luck to you, Lady Stark."

She turned to Sandor. "Best lead your horse aboard, Clegane." She hated to address him so coldly, but at the moment it could not be helped. Soon they were settled on the ship; she in one cabin, Ser Willem and Sandor in another. _That doesn't bode well_, she mused. Before they went below decks, Sansa made sure to pull Sandor aside. "I am alone in my cabin," she murmured, "and I believe if Ser Willem was drunk enough, he would not notice your absence...for a few hours at least."

Other than a snort, Sandor did not acknowledge her comment. Sansa pretended to ignore his response, and merely smiled at him as if nothing was wrong, as if nothing had changed between the two of them. "I look forward to your visit," she whispered, sauntering into her cabin and hoping beyond hope that he took her hint.


	18. Sandor IX

Yes, it's been a very, very long while since I updated this fic. Um...I'm sorry? ;) Really though, I am sorry that I'm so slow about writing this one. I've had a lot of writer's block with it, among other issues (not the least of which is my insanely busy 'real life'). I wish I could promise that I will update this again soon, but...I can't. Still, I will do my best to not let two or three months go by (again) before posting another chapter. Please don't hate me? :)

As always, reviews are much, much appreciated! I promise that I read and love every one that I receive. Well, maybe I don't LOVE the ones that are critical, but at least take them to heart :)

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><p>Stranger had absolutely no desire to be aboard this ship, and even less of one to go below decks. By the time Sandor had settled the destrier in his all-too-tiny box stall in the livestock hold, he could hear the cog pulling up its anchor and the shouts of the men as they rigged up the sails. He caught himself wondering where Sansa would be and grunted in frustration. After their argument first thing this morning, followed by her behavior on their ride to the pier...gods, all he knew was that he would never understand her.<p>

He made his way back up to the top deck, refusing to go to her room and not wanting to go to his own. _Not just _yours, either, __Sandor reminded himself, curling his lip at the fact that he was required to share a room with that arse Ser Willem. Sandor had a feeling that he would be spending much of his time 'taking the air up top', as they said.

The sun had risen much higher in the sky, but the breeze off the sea made the deck a fairly pleasant place. Knowing that they would be on a boat, Sandor hadn't donned the heaviest parts of his armor that morning, and he strode right to the rail to take in their surroundings as the ship began to slowly pull away from the pier. He had stood there for several minutes before he heard someone behind him. The man cleared his throat and then said - quite carefully, to Sandor's amusement - "Ser, Lady Sansa wishes you and I to meet with herself and Captain Marsh in the captain's quarters."

Sandor turned and glared at the speaker, who was none other than Ser Willem. "Does she now? And stop calling me _Ser, _dammit._"_

"She does. He wishes us to eat the midday meal with him, and she wanted me to tell you that if it please you there will be wine available as well. Good Dornish red, in fact," Ser Willem added, forcing a smile.

It had been quite a while since Sandor had tasted quality wine, but still he curled his lip at the thought of spending any extended amount of time with some ship captain he didn't know and this questionable knight of House Wyl. Yet much as he hated to admit it, the thought of his little bird spending time with Ser Willem without Sandor there to watch over them irked him, and so he knew that he wouldn't - _couldn't - _refuse the invitation. "I'm not one to turn down wine, good or no," he finally grunted. "Lead the way."

Captain Marsh's cabin was surprisingly pleasant. Not very big, but then the ship wasn't exactly large, either. The furnishings were simple yet comfortable, and the captain himself seemed welcoming enough. _Could be worse, _Sandor mused as he stalked over to Sansa and stood by her side, ignoring the smirkish smile on her face and the fact that she kept cutting her eyes up at him. Captain Marsh himself served Sandor and Ser Willem their glasses of wine; the little bird already had one in hand and was clutching it with something like determination. The four of them sipped their Dornish red in silence for several minutes, until the captain finally broke the awkward quiet.

"I must say that it is a surprise to be carrying you to Sunspear, my lady, but not an unpleasant one." His gaze flickered toward Sandor for half a moment, but it appeared that Sansa didn't notice.

"I owe you a debt of gratitude for certain, captain," she said graciously.

"I'm sure the waived portage fees were more than enough, compensation-wise," Ser Willem noted. Sandor watched the captain, expecting the sort of rude and greedy reaction that most men in his place would have had, but Captain Marsh merely chuckled.

"Yes, yes they were. Them, and the mere honor of having Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell aboard my ship."

_These fools are too good to be true, _Sandor found himself thinking - but he kept himself, and his thoughts, in check. The little bird had made it all too clear that she wanted - needed- to trust Ser Willem and Captain Marsh; for her sake Sandor simply had to remember to keep his mouth shut and his eyes open.

"I do hope that I will not be intruding on your hospitality for too long," Sansa chirped.

"Ah, there is no reason to have such a concern. But if the winds are in our favor, a fortnight at most and you will be safe with the Martells."

This time, Sandor couldn't hold back his snort, and the others quickly turned to look at him. He merely shrugged in response to their questioning expressions, and Ser Willem bristled. "Do you have it in you to speak against House Martell, _Clegane?"_

"Do I _have it in me? _I'll say whatever I want, about whoever I want - Ser," Sandor growled. "But since you asked, no, I don't mean to speak out against the Martells."

"Then what is the meaning of your insolent noises and expressions?" Ser Willem demanded.

Sandor's mouth twisted into a grimace. "Lady Sansa here won't ever be truly safe, not so long as a Lannister remains alive in this world...even if she's hidden away in Dorne with the Martells. That's why I find it so amusing that everyone seems to believe that once we reach Sunspear, she's got nothing to worry about. Mark my words, they'll quickly find out where she's got to, and with _Prince_ Oberyn in King's Landing the Martells have already - albeit somewhat unknowingly - handed a hostage over to the Iron Throne. The Martells have always been more concerned about their own family members than anything, or anyone, else, and they certainly don't oweany allegiance to Lady Sansa or to the Starks in general." When he finished speaking, only silence permeated the room for quite some time.

"_She _doesn't have anything to worry about," Ser Willem finally sputtered. "You, on the other hand - "

"Ha! You think I didn't know what I may be getting myself into, when I agreed to help the li - the girl - get to Dorne? The Martells and their dreams of revenge against my brother don't frighten me."

"Death surely does!" Ser Willem practically shouted.

"I don't think so. The only thing that frightens me is fire," Sandor spat, pointing a finger at his own scarred face.

"Then perhaps I'll make sure that the Martells know this bit of information!" threatened Ser Willem.

"Enough!"

This time the shout came from Sansa. Sandor realized that as he and the foolish young knight had been arguing, they'd continually stepped closer to each other until they weren't but a foot apart. He turned toward the little bird and saw that she had put down her wine glass and leapt up from her chair. Her face had gone pale with fury and she was clenching and unclenching her hands - all in all, a most unladylike spectacle on her part. Sandor felt suddenly chastened and quickly backed away from Ser Willem, hating himself for relishing in the thankful look that Sansa gave him before she faced the young knight, a determined look about her face.

"Ser Willem, Sandor is my sworn shield and I trust him with my life. No...more than that, really, though one who was not with us in King's Landing could not possibly understand my meaning, I think. The Martells _will _accept him, or they will quickly lose_ _me." __At this, she turned back to Sandor, and he caught the flash of anger in her eyes before she took a deep breath and continued. "Sandor, we've had enough conversation about this, though I'm not sure you ever spoke so bluntly about what might happen to me upon our arrival in Sunspear. Still, you, ser, must learn to hold your temper." With one last withering look at the both of them, she lowered herself back into her chair and quickly gulped down the rest of her wine before politely asking Captain Marsh to refill her glass.

Sandor realized that he was clenching his jaw in anger. He wanted to take the little bird by the shoulders and shake some sense into her; he wanted to stomp out of this cabin and be alone as he'd once preferred being; he wanted to wrap his arms around Sansa Stark and kiss her until this strange new fierceness of hers disappeared and she begged him to take her there and then. Yet somehow he found himself ignoring these base desires and instead merely raising his own wine glass to his mouth again, pulling from it as if it was a jug and barely enjoying the high quality of it at all.

"Would you like some more wine, Sandor?" the little bird asked softly. She had been watching him, he understood, but when his eyes met hers Sansa's gaze seemed almost expressionless. He curled his lip in annoyance and frustration, but her demeanor did not change - she would not bend for him, not just now.

"All right," he finally shrugged. "Guess if I'm gonna be stuck on this ship with you lot for a fortnight, I might as well find some way to enjoy myself."

He'd meant with the wine, of course - at least that's what Sandor told himself - but after he spoke those words Sansa reached to refill his wine glass for him, and he couldn't help but note that the corners of her mouth twitched upwards into a smug little smile.


	19. Sansa IX

Yet again it's been forever since I updated this, and for that I apologize. Honestly, it's always kind of in the back of my mind - I refuse to forget about it, but at the same time there are - unfortunately - a lot of other things in my life that take precedence. So eventually this fic will be finished, but I can't promise that I'll get another chapter up in any sort of timely manner :( As always, though, thank you for the reviews and the follows and whatnot :) I do at least promise that I'll not abandon this fic entirely...

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><p>She couldn't help it - Sandor's thoughts on what would happen when they reached Sunspear had concerned her. Frightened her, even. But she couldn't show her fear just now - especially not here in this cabin with the ship's captain and Ser Willem present. Instead Sansa continued to consume glass after glass of wine, until her head was swimming and she questioned how she would ever stand and walk back to her own cabin. After all, she hadn't consumed a single sip of wine between leaving King's Landing and arriving at the Wyls' stronghold...and just now the drink was giving her a strange sort of courage. Her face was flushed and it took every bit of self-control that she possessed to not glance in Sandor's direction every other moment, though she could not stop wondering if he was thinking of her as she was of him.<p>

_Why do you even care, when he is so _awful_ to you so much of the time_? Sansa asked herself, though of course she knew the answer, knew it now as she had known it days ago. _Weeks ago, even._ Knew it, though she was nowhere near ready to reveal it to _him_.

But what if he was right about Dorne and the Martells? What if they separated her and Sandor...what if they _killed_ him? He could be on a swift path to his grave right now, and if she lost him Sansa would never hear him say the words she was waiting for, would never feel him inside of her the way she wanted him to be.

If it was at all possible, her face must have flushed even deeper at that last thought. _It's the wine. Only the wine._

But truthfully, she knew better.

"Lady Sansa? Lady Sansa, are you not well?"

Sansa pasted a smile on her face and met Ser Willem's eyes with her own. "I am well enough, Ser, and thank you for your concern. It has simply been a long and arduous journey, and today has not been...easy...either." She raised her eyebrows at him before glancing Sandor's way. Her sworn shield avoided her gaze as he so often did, but she could see his jaw working in..._in what?_ Frustration, she supposed, though certainly _she_ had far more right to feel that way than _he_ did just now. Still, she decided to throw him a bone...as it were. "Sandor, would you please escort me back to my cabin?"

But Ser Willem would have none of that. "I would be pleased to have the honor of seeing you safely to rest," he insisted. Though he had drunk quite a bit - _as did I_, Sansa reminded herself - she doubted that Ser Willem meant her any harm...but it was clear that Sandor didn't feel the same way.

"I don't think so," he growled, and before Sansa could say anything in response he had stepped between her and Ser Willem. "I may have to suffer your presence, but I'll not leave the girl alone with you."

_The girl._ Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. There was simply too much that could - perhaps outright _would_ - be ruined if she let Sandor anger her right now. "I believe that a nap before the evening meal would do us all a bit of good," she mused, smiling sweetly at Ser Willem. "My cabin is quite close to yours, so we may all retire now if you both wish to escort me." _Please, please just agree._ At times she believed in her own charms, but with Sandor it seemed that more often than not they simply didn't work. Sansa wondered if he remembered her suggestion from when they'd first boarded the ship, or if she would have to attempt to make it again without Ser Willem overhearing...

"I believe that a bit of rest is just what I need, especially if taking it will allow me to help escort you to your own cabin," Ser Willem replied pointedly. Sandor snorted in derision, but Sansa felt almost pleased when that was his only response. _He must be controlling his temper for my sake_, she knew, and this thought comforted her. She made her excuses to the captain and followed Ser Willem through the door, Sandor close on her heels. She could feel his stony gray eyes on her back, feel them almost as if they were weighing her down.

_Weighing me down...or keeping my feet on the ground?_

Though the doors to their two tiny cabins were on opposite sides of the ship, they weren't but ten feet apart; still, Ser Willem and Sandor both insisted on watching Sansa as she let herself into her quarters. For a moment Sandor's eyes met hers, and in that very short amount of time she tried to convey how very much she'd meant her offer from earlier that day...but his eyes were unreadable, and then he quickly broke their contact, giving her no choice but to duck inside her cabin. _Will he come to me?_ she wondered, though she nearly hated herself for wanting him to do so. It would be a very dangerous decision to have him in her quarters, alone, no one else there to watch them. Dangerous because she had clearly drunk far too much wine. Dangerous because she wanted him. _Dangerous because we could get caught, and even if we are doing nothing wrong, it will not look good_, Sansa reminded herself.

And yet she wanted him there, nonetheless.

With a sigh Sansa reached around to unlace her dress. When it was loose enough she pushed it off her arms and reached them up, stretching like a cat, letting the gown pool on the floor around her ankles. She groaned in relief as she stood there, feeling the boat rocking gently beneath her and feeling, for just a moment, something like _free_.

The rap on her door was soft yet urgent, and startled Sansa from her reverie. "Just...just a moment. Please." She knew that she didn't have time to get dressed again, but she certainly could not open the door wearing only a shift -

"Open the damn door, little bird." Sandor's voice was no more than a soft rasp, presumably because he didn't want to be heard or discovered, and Sansa found herself rushing to let him in. As soon as she opened the door he fairly barged through it, though thankfully he had the good sense not to slam it shut behind him. Once it had been latched closed he reached for her, wrapping his large and calloused hands over her shoulders and pulling her close. "This is fucking stupid," he snarled.

"Why? Where is Ser Willem?"

Sandor's lip curled in distaste and he shoved Sansa away from him. "Concerned for _Ser_ Willem, are you? Don't be, I didn't do anything to him. He was so eager to take your suggestion of a rest that he fell asleep soon as he laid down on his pallet."

"It's amazing how easily some men can be swayed," Sansa heard herself reply. For a moment she thought that Sandor would balk at her insolence, but instead he chuckled and released her.

"Aye..._some_ men," he agreed pointedly.

Sansa pursed her lips. "Not you, though," she murmured, more to herself than to him.

"So I like to believe. But recently..." He raised one hand, and with a surprisingly gentle touch brushed a lock of hair away from her face. The feel of his rough fingertips on her forehead and cheek sent tingles down Sansa's spine, and almost without thinking she reached up and took his hand in hers to brush her lips across those fingertips. Sandor squeezed his eyes shut and let her do so - but not for long. "Little bird," he mumbled, "_don't_." He pulled his hand out of her grasp.

"But I _want_ you," she admitted, stepping closer to him, feeling her nipples go hard under her shift as she pressed herself against him. But Sandor stood still, cold and unmoving, even when she wrapped her arms about him.

"The captain could come knocking at your door right now," Sandor rasped, "or _Ser_ Willem could awake and wonder where I've wandered off to. You're playing a dangerous game here, _my lady_."

"Perhaps I am," Sansa replied petulantly. The wine had gone to her head and made her more forward than she would normally be, even with Sandor. "But the captain and Ser Willem both think that I am sleeping, and I believe you're just _scared_."

This accusation at least brought about a reaction. Sandor finally took her in his arms, holding her body tightly against his so that she could feel his manhood hard against her stomach. _So large_, Sansa mused with a smile, and it was not just his height and his muscular arms that she was thinking of. "I think I've told you before, girl...the only thing I'm _scared_ of is fire," Sandor growled before covering her mouth with his.


	20. Sandor X

Okay, so I didn't expect to be able to write another chapter so fast...buuuut I felt bad leaving that last one with a bit of a cliffhanger :) I'm trying to be more diligent about working on this fic, I promise! As always, thank you for the reviews and I hope you enjoy...

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><p>She'd played him well and good, played him like she would a high harp, and Sandor felt the heat of both anger and lust burning in his veins as he tightened his arms around Sansa Stark and kissed her as he never had before...yet somehow also as he'd done a hundred times. She was nearly naked already...<em>how much more would it take...<br>_  
><em>No.<em> Not now. Not now, and likely not ever.

Sandor forced himself to break their embrace. "That's enough, little bird."

But Sansa shook her head emphatically. "No it's not. It's _never_ enough, Sandor. Don't you see?" Before he knew it she had practically thrown herself into his arms again, her fingers working furiously at his jerkin, trying to undress him. Sandor reached up to brush her hands away, but she fought against him - and after a moment he gave in and let her proceed, sighing as she shoved his clothing away from his chest and down his arms, tangling her fingers in his chest hair and brushing her soft lips over his collarbone. When he wrapped one hand in her hair and pulled her head back to kiss her again, he told himself that he could - _would_ - stop this. _Soon enough..._

Only soon enough, he was lost in her as he'd been so many times before. He forgot where they were and what they were doing as he yanked her shift over her head and allowed his hands to roam her deliciously beautiful - _and naked_ - body. He felt her trembling, but her skin was hot under his hands - and when he tucked one of them between her thighs and found her cunt with his fingers, it was wet for him and Sansa Stark moaned her desire.

That sound tore him from this dream, thrusting him back into the reality of their situation. "Shit," Sandor growled. It took every bit of self-control that he possessed to pull his hand away from that welcoming place between Sansa's legs, but when he did so she only moved toward him again, clearly wanting his hand..._back where it belongs,_ was the first thought to cross Sandor's mind. He couldn't help but chuckle, and it was this sound that seemed to bring Sansa back to their reality as well.

"What about this is so humorous?" she asked him, smiling languidly, her fingers continuing to trace over his chest and stomach.

Sandor lost himself again as he gazed down into her eyes. "When you think about it, everything."

"Some may think so," Sansa admitted. "But not I."

"No. Nor me, either. Which is exactly why we need to stop this." _Now. Now...and forever._ But he couldn't bring himself to say all that.

"Stop what?" she teased, and before Sandor knew it she had cupped her hand over his cock, which was already straining the laces of his breeches.

"Little bird," he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut for just a moment before pushing her hand away and repeating, "no."

"_Yes_," Sansa insisted, but this time when she reached for him he caught her hand and held it tightly.

"What in the seven hells has gotten into you?" he growled.

"Wine, I suppose," she shrugged, as she reluctantly backed away from him. "But I think that _I_ am the one who should be asking _you_ that question. Do you not desire me any longer?"

Her eyes revealed that she knew better, and Sandor couldn't help but snort. "I think it's damn obvious that isn't the case."

"I suppose." The corner of Sansa's mouth twitched up into half a smile. She was standing before him naked as her name day and clearly not ashamed to be so; the sight of her made his cock ache. "And you say you aren't _scared_. The door is latched, we are alone, and no one will bother us...not for quite some time, at least. _What is the problem here_? Surely you can tell that I want you as well."

"I can. Though I'll never understand _why_."

"I'm not sure the why of it really matters, but if you'd ask me, I'd tell you. Again."

"Again?" Sandor was confused.

"You know that I care for you. You've protected me. You helped me to escape from King's Landing and the Lannisters. You've never forced yourself on me, though I've surely thrown myself at you a dozen times. Do I have to _beg_ you, Sandor? That wouldn't be ladylike of me, you know." Sansa grimaced at her own sarcasm.

"Aye...but you do know how to act the lady when you need to," Sandor pointed out. "So why not with me?"

"I thought you hated when I 'acted the lady'? I thought my courtesies were nothing more than lies, in your mind? After all that you've said to me, after all we've been through together, you dare ask me why I do not 'act the lady' with you?" Sansa's face had gone red with anger, but to his relief she bent to pick up her shift, and then pulled it over her head, turning her back to him and reaching for the flagon of wine that someone had left for her.

"I think you've had enough of that, little bird," Sandor cautioned, his voice softer than he meant it to be.

Sansa rounded on him again. "I don't think I have. There is something I must tell you, but I'm not quite sure I've drunk enough yet. Surely you understand _that_."

"I'd rather you tell me these things to me when you haven't been drinking," Sandor heard himself say. And gods be good, he meant it. Anything she said to him when she was drunk on wine...it may be true, but whether it meant the same if she could only say it with wine courage...

"I don't think I could," Sansa whispered, avoiding his gaze. "I've...I've thought about this for some time now, but...I've never been able to admit it"

_What in seven hells could she be talking about? _"Little bird, I - "

"No. Please...don't ask me not to tell you what I want to tell you. What I _need_ to tell you. I'm...I'm not sure I could bare it, if you refused to hear me out."

Sandor fixed his eyes on the floor. "Say it, then. Say it now, if you _need_ to." He tried to prepare himself for Sansa Stark to tell him that she no longer needed him, that she meant to disembark this ship in Sunspear without him...but he never could have prepared himself for the words that she actually spoke.

"Sandor...I...what you said, earlier...about what may happen to us...to _you_, with the Martells...I couldn't bear it. I couldn't bear it because...for some time now...I've _loved_ you. I _love_ you. I know you may think me silly, you may believe that I don't know what I'm saying...but I _do_. I love you, more than I could ever possibly - "

"Little bird – _Sansa_ - "

"No. Don't. I don't want to hear you say that you don't think I mean it. You're right - anything could happen when we arrive in Sunspear. _Anything_. I - I'm not prepared for what _could_ happen. I _know_ that. But it...it doesn't change how I feel. How I've _felt_. I love you, Sandor. I do. Look me in the eye and tell me that you don't believe me."

But Sandor couldn't bring himself to obey her, couldn't bring himself to 'look her in the eye' and tell her whether or not he was convinced that she loved him. He knew that Sansa at least _believed_ that she loved him, so what was the point? _And what in the hell am I supposed to say in response, anyway?_ As close as he'd let her come to him – to knowing him - he'd still, in a way, kept her at arm's length, knowing that at the worst they would be torn apart; at best, eventually she would wed some great Lord, relegating Sandor to the sidelines of her life. For all her previous talk of marriage and these new declarations of what she thought was love, he simply did not see this ending in their favor - and he didn't understand how that wasn't obvious to Sansa as well.

"Sandor?" Sansa's tone was pleading, now, but still Sandor refused to meet her gaze. Instead he turned and faced the door.

"This was a mistake," he announced.

"A _mistake_? _What_ was a mistake?" He heard the panic in her voice, and it both disgusted Sandor and made him loathe himself for what he knew he had to say.

"Coming here, to your quarters. Agreeing to follow you all the way to Dorne, when you certainly don't need me to protect you any longer. Not controlling myself...physically...when I'm around you. All of it. _Everything_."

His declaration was met with a long silence, until Sansa finally whispered, "Get out." Though she spoke quietly, her words somehow seemed more forceful than they ever had before, and this time Sandor knew that he had no choice but to obey. He unlatched the door, but paused before actually leaving her. _Tell her you're sorry, dog. Tell her you didn't mean any of it. Take her in your arms and take her, take her, _take _her_...

But therein lay the problem. No matter how much he wanted her, she could never be his, and it was past time that she learned that.

"Sleep off that wine," was all that he said - before exiting her quarters to go find more drink for himself.

At this point, wine was probably the only thing that could possibly keep him sane.


	21. Sansa X

As always... 3 3 3 thank you for all of the reviews and favorites etc. :D I can't promise that I'll be able to continue updating this fic so quickly, but I do promise that I'll try my best. I've finally got the ball rolling in terms of ideas for where it will go from here, at least to a point, so that helps :)

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><p>She felt...<em>sick<em>.

There was simply no other way to describe it. She was angry, yes, but she wasn't even sure whether she was angrier with Sandor...or with herself. He kept trying to push her away, yet so far she had refused to let him do so. And now..._now..._

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut against the tears that had welled up in them. Things hadn't gone at all how she'd hoped.

_Stupid little bird. _Silly_ little bird. Did you think that he would profess his love for you? How could you not have foreseen that an admission such as yours would suffocate his ardor?_

She wanted to scream, she wanted to tear her shift to pieces, she wanted to throw the flagon of wine against the wall and watch it shatter, see its contents stain the wood red as blood...but of course Sansa Stark did none of those things. No, she merely lay down on her pallet and stared at the ceiling as her tears fell silently, drenching her face and her hair. When sleep would not come, she stood, dressed herself, and washed her face with the jug of water and the cloth she'd been provided. She even drank a bit more wine to steady her nerves before making her way back up to the top deck. Sandor was there, but so was the captain, and Sansa busied herself with asking him for details of the voyage and pretending to be interested in hearing about his ship, his crew, and his past. The captain was a gruff but kindly man, and all too happy to oblige - especially in regards to speaking of his ship. Eventually they were joined by Ser Willem, but still Sandor kept his distance - and Sansa was resolved to the idea of letting him do so.

"Have no fear, m'lady," the captain was saying. "With the right winds, we'll arrive at Sunspear in a fortnight. Perhaps even sooner."

"I'm glad of that," Sansa replied, forcing a smile. "I was never one for riding horses, and just now I'm not sure I care much more for sailing, either. No offense meant to you, of course...but I long ago realized that I would have been much better off remaining at Winterfell. I fancied myself a traveler, an adventuress...I wanted to see King's Landing and be at court...I was a silly little girl."

"I'm certain you were never a silly little girl," Ser Willem disagreed. "And perhaps you will soon return to the North, with friends by your side to drive out those who don't belong in your ancestral home."

Sansa could not look at the young knight as she said, "One can only hope." Deep down she knew that it would be quite some time before she could possibly return to Winterfell, and Ser Willem surely knew that as well - he was merely telling her what she wanted to hear, and above all Sandor had helped her see how tiresome that could be. Yet she dared not be rude to these men - especially Ser Willem. Not now…not when it seemed likely that Sandor would very soon insist on going his own way.

_He has every right to leave,_ Sansa kept reminding herself, though she knew that she would never be able to forgive him if he did.

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><p>They were so far south that the autumn storms had not yet reached these waters, and true to the captain's word they made good time on their journey, arriving in Sunspear a mere twelve days after leaving the docks of Wyl. For Sansa those days were ones of quiet reflection - and, truth be told, of sadness. Sandor was on the ship with her, of course, but he kept his distance - to the point where others soon noticed. The captain and Ser Willem were among the first, and though both seemed a bit hesitant to do so they eventually questioned her on the matter. Sansa waved them off with nothing more than bad excuses, reminding them that there was nowhere for her to go and that the men aboard the cog were clearly worthy of her trust – and so she did not need Sandor to be constantly by her side.<p>

Truth be told, Sansa had hoped that Sandor would come around - he was stubborn, yes, but he'd changed his mind before whenever she was involved. Yet as the days wore on, he remained distant, and she became less and less certain that he would ever attempt to make amends.

The morning they were to arrive at Sunspear dawned cool, but the promise of a hot day loomed before them - Sansa could tell this by how fast the mists burned off the water as the sun rose slowly in the east. She had gathered her meager belongings and was waiting on the deck, with Sandor and Ser Willem standing on either side of her, as the cog pulled into port.

"Lord Wyl would have been careful in his message to the Martells," Ser Willem explained. "They will have been told that this ship carried a gift, perhaps, or they may have written a carefully worded lie about sending one of their children for Prince Doran to bring to the Water Gardens. You will be quite a surprise to them...but hopefully, a good one."

Yet as the ship was tied up and unloaded, Sansa could sense that something was wrong. The tension in the air made her skin prickle, and any time a Dornishman - or woman - caught sight of Sandor, their stares and whispers worried her all the more.

"I think you and your...shield...should go rest in the captain's quarters," Ser Willem finally said. "I will go to see why no one has been sent to escort you."

Sansa obeyed without question, and was pleasantly surprised when Sandor followed her below decks almost...meekly. It was the only time they had been alone since that first afternoon on the ship, and it was as awkward as Sansa feared it would be. She sat in one of the captain's chairs while Sandor stood in the doorway, and at least a quarter of an hour of silence passed before she finally decided that couldn't take it any longer.

"Those Dornish people on the docks...do you think they recognized you?"

"Aye," Sandor replied gruffly.

"Sandor...what if Lord Wyl wrote of me when he sent a raven to Prince Doran? What if it was intercepted?"

"Then we're both in more trouble than I care to think about," he shrugged.

"How can you be so...so...nonchalant?" Sansa cried. "We could both be in very real danger right now!"

Sandor chuckled, which angered her even more. "If we had that much to worry about, little bird, someone would have already arrived to whisk us away to a dungeon. If your _friends_ the Wyls knew what was good for them - and I think they did - they wouldn't have mentioned your name if - or when - they contacted the Martells. I'm damn sure that I'm the only one of us who is in any sort of _danger_ here, and that's just because of my fucking name and the fact that everyone recognizes my ugly face." He laughed again, though this time Sansa thought it was more at himself than at her.

Still, she could not help but press him. He was speaking to her - _with_ her - _finally_. She'd almost forgotten how she loved the sound of his rasping voice, rough and sharp at the same time, stone against steel or steel against stone. "I've told you that I'll not let them harm you," she reminded him. "But that depends on _them_ not harming _me_."

"The only thing they could possibly do to 'harm' you would be to send you back to the Lannisters, and they won't do _that_. Blood runs hot in Dorne, little bird, and I can promise you that they've never forgotten what happened to Elia Martell and her mewling babes at the hands of Lord Tywin's men."

"Who happened to include your brother," she murmured.

"Aye," Sandor said again. He pinched the bridge of his nose between the thumb and forefinger of one hand, for a moment seeming almost...vulnerable. But when he looked at her again his eyes were as cold as iron. "Still think it was a good idea to come to Dorne, little bird?"

Before Sansa could answer, Ser Willem appeared behind Sandor. He was sweating and breathing hard, concern plain on his face. "Prince Doran has sent one of his own litters to carry you - _both_ of you - to the stronghold, and we'd best be going _now_."

"Ser Willem, _what _is wrong?" Sansa asked, not bothering to conceal how worried she truly was.

"Do you really think I'm going to ride in a fucking _litter_?" Sandor interjected.

"Please, I beg of you, there is no _time_. And yes, you need to ride in the litter as well. Not doing so..."

"He'll do as he's bid," Sansa insisted. She turned to Sandor. "I'm sure Prince Doran and Ser Willem have good reason to want you _in_ the litter. Come."

_Be brave_, she told herself, though all the while she could feel her heart pounding in her chest. This new development had made her fear for herself, yes, but more so she feared for Sandor.

Sansa suddenly found herself questioning whether her name and her courtesies would be enough to keep either of them safe in a world where they were at turns hunted and despised.


	22. Sandor XI

He refused to worry about himself, but he couldn't_ stop _worrying about the little bird.

The litter that had been sent for them was large and nondescript, but once he and Sansa were ensconced inside with the dull golden silks drawn down around them, it was close quarters - and stuffy. Every time the thing rocked from side to side they were practically thrown against each other, and Sandor could feel Sansa trembling throughout the entire ride. He wanted to reassure her, but what could he possibly say? _What do you have the _right_ to say, with the way you've treated her these past weeks?_ If it came to it, he wouldn't blame her one bit for saving her own arse and leaving him to the wrath of the Martells...though if he was honest with himself, he knew that she was simply too good to ever do such a thing.

Sunspear wasn't a big city, yet it seemed to take half a lifetime to reach the Martell stronghold. It wasn't until Sandor heard the gates clang shut behind them that Ser Willem pulled back the silks and gestured for them to exit the litter.

"Come quickly. Prince Doran awaits you in his private solar."

"_Both_ of us?" Sandor asked, incredulous.

Ser Willem's lip curled in distaste. "The moment you appeared on the deck of that ship, rumors spread through the city that a Clegane was about. Prince Doran had word from my lord merely that important guests were being sent to Sunspear, or something of the sort, so if I were you I wouldn't get too comfortable. The lady is one thing; you, Clegane, are quite another."

"Ser Willem, please." Sansa's voice was strained, and Sandor was surprised when she said no more - but apparently she didn't have to, because the handsome young knight bowed his head apologetically and kept his silence as they made their way to Prince Doran's solar.

The man himself was already seated within, awaiting them, and behind him stood a broad-shouldered, white-haired man holding a great axe nearly as tall as he was. _That one could be problematic_, Sandor knew immediately - but it took just one glance at Sansa Stark for the Prince of Dorne to dismiss his guard. The axeman gave Sandor a look that would have quelled a lesser man, but nonetheless obeyed his master's order.

"Seven save us, you're Sansa Stark," Prince Doran breathed as soon as the door had shut behind the guard.

"I am, my lo - my _prince_," Sansa corrected herself, dropping to her knees. She avoided looking at either Doran Martell or Sandor as she continued, "And this is my sworn shield, Sandor - "

"Clegane, I know. Even so far south as Dorne, we know of the burned brute whom they call the Hound. But...your_ sworn shield_, my lady? This is a dangerous man, and he is not well loved in Westeros."

Sandor's hands clenched into fists, almost of their own accord, but somehow he found the means to bite his tongue and let the little bird have her say. She rose gracefully to her feet and met the Prince's eyes as she spoke.

"He was only the Hound because of the Lannisters and their hold on him - a hold they no longer have," Sansa reassured the Prince. "Nor is he a brute. He has protected me for some time now...he is the only reason I was able to escape King's Landing and make it all the way here to Sunspear. I cannot say that he isn't dangerous, nor can I speak for those who do not love him - but your man with the axe looked dangerous enough, and clearly you trust him to be your guard. Please understand that I myself have grown to care for Sandor, as any person would care for the man who saved them from a life of torment."

Doran Martell looked from Sansa to Sandor, and Sandor stared right back. The Prince of Dorne had probably been almost nondescript in his younger years, but age and infirmity had made him nearly as grotesque as Sandor was himself. Finally, Prince Doran spoke.

"For your sake, Lady Sansa, I will withhold further judgment about Ser Clegane here. But please know that outside of these walls...I cannot guarantee his safety. In fact, were my brother Oberyn's daughters not locked away someplace safe, I could not even guarantee his safety within my own stronghold." The Prince sighed. "Be that as it may, now that both of you are here I am presented with the quandary of what to _do_ with you."

"If you please, my Prince...Sandor is no knight. And so long as you and yours will not harm him, I believe there is nothing more we could expect. As for myself...I only ask for safe haven, if that is something that you can give. And I hope that I will not have to intrude on your generosity for very long, if you will allow me to do so at all."

Though he knew how frightened Sansa had been not so much earlier, just now she stood straight and tall and proud. She was pale, yes, and she looked tired as well...but she was beautiful, a lady in every sense of the word, and Sandor was certain that no matter how cautious Doran Martell may be, he would in no wise refuse Sansa Stark the help she asked of him.

"Have no fear, Lady _Stark_. I will not return you to the Lannisters, that is a certainty. However...whether Sunspear is the safest place for you..." Prince Doran shook his head. "I am of a mind to send you to the Water Gardens, at least until we can think of an even more secure place. The Princess Myrcella is here, you know, with her white knight and several Lannister guardsmen. Should any of them recognize you..."

"I do not believe that Myrcella would mean me any harm, and Ser Arys was - "

"Just another knight who beat you," Sandor muttered, and both Sansa and Doran Martell turned to look at him. Sansa's face had flushed red, but the Prince of Dorne looked as thoughtful as ever.

"Does he speak the truth, my lady? A knight of the Kingsguard _beat_ you?"

Sansa was clearly embarrassed. She averted her eyes from both Sandor and the Prince and fixed them on her feet. Sandor knew that he should feel sorry for speaking of the shameful things that had happened to her in King Joffrey's court, but he felt that the Martells should know the things that Sansa had faced - and overcome. It could only make them more likely to help her..._right_?

"Ser Arys least of all," Sansa finally whispered. "And he...he was the only one who spoke against it." This admission made Sandor's guts twist. He wanted to believe that he would have refused, had Joffrey ever truly insisted that he hit Sansa Stark...but that situation had never presented itself, and now...

Once again Doran Martell looked from Sansa to Sandor, but this time he turned back to the girl before speaking. "I see. Well. Ser Arys is a guest under my roof, and as it stands it is better that he not know of your being in Dorne. If you and your...sworn shield...do not object, I will send you to the Water Gardens immediately. I would save the journey until first light if I thought it safe, but if you leave now and travel by horseback you will reach that place by dusk. I am told that you have one horse on the ship; I will provide you with a sand steed and a complement of guards as well. Ser Willem will attend you; Lord Wyl seemed to believe that the young knight is devoted to the idea of keeping you safe, and the more men you have about you, the better, I think." Again he glanced Sandor's way. "I trust my servants explicitly, especially at the Water Gardens, where there are always children visiting. All the same, it will be best for you to not speak your true names, and to keep to yourselves whenever possible. This is the only way I can even...partially...guarantee your safety. And as soon as a better situation presents itself..."

"I believe that I may trust you to keep my best interests at heart," Sansa noted. _She plays these men even easier than she does me_, Sandor thought, and not for the first time. He did not care for the idea of Ser Willem attending Sansa as well, but now of all times it was not his place to argue against the idea. He watched the Prince of Dorne, but saw no treachery in that man's sad and pain-filled eyes.

"I am honored that you have placed your trust in me...and in Dorne. Perhaps when the time is right, I will be able to introduce you to my daughter...though I would not suggest that your sworn shield be present at that time. Many people here in Dorne would not care to differentiate one Clegane from another."

"But you do?" Sandor growled. He couldn't help it; the mere idea of being thought of just as his brother would be...

Prince Doran sighed again, his swollen hands worrying at the blanket that covered the ruins of his legs. "I know what it is to be different from one's brother, Sandor Clegane."


	23. Sansa XI

She had always heard of tell of Doran Martell's cautious nature, but the ease of their arrival and how kind that man had been - especially in regards to Sandor - was a pleasant surprise to say the least.

Ser Willem had been sent back to the ship to gather their few belongings - including Stranger, and Sansa could see that the idea of the young knight having to deal with the wild stallion amused Sandor to no end. When Ser Willem finally returned to the stronghold, the Prince of Dorne saw to it that they were given the sand steeds he'd promised them, as well as silks to wrap about their heads. "Protection from the sun and blowing sand," Prince Doran noted, "and from prying eyes, as well." He glanced at Sansa's hair and Sandor's face, but she could not be certain whether his grimace was for them, or in response to his obviously painful gout.

Their ride was not a long one, but it was hot, hotter than Sansa could have expected after the cool days and cold nights she'd been used to both in King's Landing and throughout her and Sandor's travels. By the time they reached the Water Gardens, her hair was plastered about her face and neck and she felt as if she was fairly coated in the gritty sand of Dorne.

"The children will have vacated the pools by now," a maidservant told her as Sansa removed her silken veil and picked at her gown, which was sweaty and dusty in turns. "You may use them to bathe, if you'd like."

"That sounds wonderful," Sansa admitted. The maid nodded, then brought out a thin, dark gray shift.

"Wear this, my lady. The pools are not meant for private baths and there's no telling who might be wandering about."

Sansa smiled her thanks and donned the simple shift. It felt light and cool against her skin and fluttered about her as she followed the young woman to the pools.

"I must leave you to yourself, but you are safe here," the servant promised. Sansa tipped her head in acknowledgement before practically running to the nearest vat of water and slipping down into it, relishing the feel of the grime washing from her skin.

_Safe._ It seemed such a simple word. She'd known safety all her childhood in Winterfell, and had never questioned its continuance when she left that place. When had the feeling of being safe ended? Was it with Lady's death, or her father's imprisonment, or when he was beheaded? She couldn't quite place it, yet at the same time she knew that losing Lady had torn her asunder, and that even her happiest times in King's Landing had been nothing more than a lie.

Wanting to drown such thoughts, Sansa let herself slide down until she was fully immersed. She held her breath as she'd been taught to do in Winterfell's hot pools, and only broke the surface again when it felt as if her lungs were about to explode from lack of air. She sputtered a bit and rubbed the water away from her eyes, and then her heart leapt into her throat when someone spoke to her.

"If you mean to drown yourself, you're not trying very hard." It was Sandor, and Sansa turned to glare at him.

"I'm having a bath, thank you," she retorted. "I know how to swim, you needn't worry about me."

"Didn't look like you were swimming."

Sansa opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. "Leave me be," she finally said, abruptly turning her back on him.

"I don't think I will. You're clothed, and I need a wash just as bad as you. They told me I'd best take advantage of the pools now, as they'll be filled with the brats of lordlings and merchants come first light." Sansa heard rustles and scrapes as Sandor removed his own clothing - _hopefully not all of it_, she thought desperately - and then a splash as he entered the pool with her.

She couldn't help but glance his way. The water blurred his body from the waist down, so Sansa could not tell whether he had left his breeches on - but what she could see of his body was certainly bare. The sight of his scarred yet muscular chest and his massive arms covered with dark hair - hair that was, she recalled, surprisingly silky and soft - made her blush. She turned away again.

"Is the little bird embarrassed at the sight of my naked chest?" Sandor growled. But Sansa heard no anger in his voice, and she realized that he was actually _teasing_ her. _Will he open up to me again, now that we know that the Martells will protect us...now that they've made no move to separate us?_

_Will I _let_ him open up to me again?_

"Of course I'm not...embarrassed," she whispered, though she kept her eyes locked on the rippling water rather than meet his gaze.How could he not understand how she felt, when she'd stood before him and bared her soul?

"Could've fooled me," he chuckled, but when she did finally look at him she saw that he had closed his eyes and sunk up to his chin in the water. _He looks almost peaceful, _Sansa mused, and somehow seeing him like this annoyed her. _He thinks I'm still a child_, she knew. _I suppose I might as well act like one_.

Sansa lifted her arms and used all of her strength to send a wave of water splashing over Sandor's head. Startled, he leapt to his feet, swearing. She watched him scan the area, but his gaze quickly came to rest on her. "What the _fuck_ was that for? I was half asleep! I thought..."

"Why Sandor, what did you think?" Sansa asked sweetly. "Surely if someone had come to attack you or I, there wouldn't be any sort of splashing involved. Not like that, anyway." She smirked at him, her expression growing ever more mirthful as his face went red with anger. He was clearly fighting with himself over how to respond to her, and part of Sansa almost hoped that...

_What? What do you hope for, or why does it _matter_ what you hope for, when he will only push you away again and again and again?_

"I thought nothing," was his eventual response. "We have arrived in Dorne, and Doran Martell has agreed to keep us safe. Forget it. Forget it all." Sandor turned to step out of the pool, but before he could do so Sansa slapped her hands against the water, hard. Though this splash was far weaker than the previous one, it still caught his attention - and when he glared at her over his shoulder she stood up as well, heedless of the thin wet shift clinging to every curve of her body.

"_All_ of it?" she snapped, thrilling at how quickly he lost his focus and let his eyes wander over her partially-exposed form. "You truly expect me to forget our times in the godswood, those nights on the road, what happened in the bedchamber at the Wyls' stronghold? I have kept my distance since that first day on the ship, and when I've had to face you I've been nothing but courteous...yet you _persist_ in this folly. Did you hope that I would dismiss you? Because I will _not_. If you no longer want to be by my side - if you want to leave me - you may do so at any time...but I will not _tell _you to go. I _cannot_ tell you to go. Don't you see? I - "

"There you go again, little bird, chirp-chirp-chirping. I don't want to hear it. _Any_ of it."

"Then why are you still here?!" Sansa cried, her hands clenching themselves into fists, seemingly of their own accord. "To taunt me? To torment me?"

"You may want to be a bit quieter than all that," Sandor chided, looking behind him to see if anyone was approaching.

Sansa scoffed at him, but then thought twice about being so loud and used his advice as an excuse to step toward him. As evening stretched into night, the air had grown much cooler, and under the thin fabric of her shift her nipples were hard little buds. She saw Sandor's eyes flick toward them and felt something within her grow tight with desire in response. "What do you want of me, Sandor? Why are you _here_?" she repeated.

The burnt corner of his mouth twitched. She hadn't seen it move like that in some time, and just now it was almost...endearing.

Until he spoke.

"I'm here to protect you, girl. No more."

_I will not cry._ "It seems that I do not need your protection," she retorted, gesturing around them. "I am _safe_ here, Sandor. Prince Doran has all but given me his allegiance, and no one knows where I've gone, anyway."

"Yet," he snarled.

"Yet. _Yet_? I do not understand you, Sandor...I do not understand you one bit. You have kissed me, you have pleasured me, you have taken your own pleasure _from_ me. Yet now you deny me, you mock me, and you constantly tell me that I should continue to be afraid. I will not tell you to leave me, but it is past time for you to make a _choice_. You'll either have me or you won't, and if you won't...if my presence is such a bane to you...then you should ask yourself why you stay."


	24. Sandor XII

First, I want to say thank you to all of the long-time readers who have stuck with me through this fic...especially since I've been writing it for over a year now and there have been times when my updates were spaced months apart. I do apologize profusely for that, because I read fics as well and I know how it is to wait forever for an update. We've still got a little ways to go (I'd hazard a guess at another half dozen chapters, though it could be a bit less or a bit more :) )...but I hope to continue at least at the one-chapter-a-week pace until it's finished.

Second, I want to say thank you to any NEW readers of this fic and hope that you've enjoyed so far!

Third, just a general thank you for all of the reviews and favorites and whatnot 3 Honestly they are a big part of what's kept me going, because this one has been really difficult to write.

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><p>The little bird was right, though he didn't want to admit it. There was little and less reason for him to remain by her side, though he was only being honest with her when he told her that he still wasn't sure she was truly safe. <em>She needs to hear such things, and I'm the only one who will ever speak them.<em> Ser Willem, the fool, clearly thought to coddle Sansa Stark...Doran Martell may not go quite that far, but Sandor doubted that the Prince of Dorne would tell the little bird everything that she needed to hear.

"You need me because I'm the only one who will never lie to you," Sandor finally stated.

"I think that I can determine lies from truths by myself now," Sansa insisted. "And I am not _stupid_, either. For instance, I know that you fight with yourself over how to treat me when I am in your presence, even more so now than you did when the issue was simply keeping our...involvement with each other...a secret, from Tyrion and Joffrey and everyone else in the Red Keep. It...it seems that you are hurting yourself as much as you are hurting me." These last words were no more than a whisper...but though he saw the effort it took her to speak them aloud, as usual Sandor's anger flared up in response. It took everything in him to hold it back, despite not knowing why Sansa Stark caused such feelings in him in the first place.

_It's not her causing them, you fucking dog. It's _you_. You want her, but more than that, you _care_ about her...you, who's not supposed to give a shit about anyone._

Sandor took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, little bird," he grunted. He wanted to say more, wanted to tell her he couldn't do this, couldn't have this conversation, yet couldn't leave her, either...but instead he turned his back on her, swiped up his discarded clothing, and stalked back to his quarters. At least here at the Water Gardens, they were his own...Ser Willem was in the rooms beside him, he knew, but he had a small room to himself with a comfortable pallet and a jug of good Dornish red awaiting him. _Gods know I'll need _that_ tonight. _The sight of Sansa in that wet shift, clinging to her form and accentuating her every curve, had almost been more than he could bear. Shutting the door behind him and making sure that it was latched, Sandor peeled off his wet breeches and threw himself into the single chair that adorned his quarters. He grabbed the jug of wine from the table and took one long pull, and then another. Before long he had finished the wine, and though he knew that he should lie down and close his eyes, he couldn't bring himself to do so.

_Surely I can find some more wine somewhere in this damn place._ He stood and stretched, then donned a pair of loose silken pants that had been left for him. He was surprised to find that they almost fit, but they felt strange - loose and light and almost _soft_, compared to the breeches he was used to wearing. Thankfully his own tunic was still dry, so he pulled it over his head and left the room, heading the opposite direction of the pools in hopes of finding a kitchen or perhaps even a wine cellar.

The halls of the Water Gardens were dark and silent, and everywhere Sandor looked they seemed to be open to the night. The marble had been pale pink when they'd arrived in the dim light of the setting sun; the moonwash made it appear almost white. Flowers bloomed in every archway and even in pots set along the walls, their scent thick even in the now-cool air. He would almost swear he could smell the oranges of the orchards that surrounded the palace.

_Sansa will love it here,_ he couldn't help but think...and then he chided himself for a drunk arsehole. _Since when do _I_ think things like _that_? _he wondered.

It was the kitchens he found, and mercifully it was both late enough and early enough that there were no servants lurking about. Unfortunately there wasn't much in the way of _good _wine, either - certainly nothing like the quality stuff they'd left in his quarters - but plenty of Dornish sour. Likely it was wine used for cooking, though perhaps in the northern parts of Westeros it would have been fit for the tables of independent merchants and petty lords. Sandor settled himself near the hearth, where embers still glowed red from the evening's cook fires. He didn't look at them - _couldn't_ look at them - but even in Dorne the nights were cold, and the silken pants and thin tunic he wore weren't doing much in the way of keeping him warm. _At least not until I get some more of this wine in me_, Sandor chuckled to himself.

But the more he drank, the worse he felt. Maybe he wasn't cold, but physical comfort apparently meant nothing when he couldn't stop thinking about the little bird. She wanted things that he could not give her - _no_, Sandor corrected himself. _She wants things you are _afraid _to give her_. He pushed her away when at every turn he wanted nothing more than to draw her close. Why else had he kissed her that first time in the godswood, and again and again and again after that? Why else had he brought her away from King's Landing, agreed to accompany her to Dorne, fulfilled nearly every promise he'd ever made her?

Not that he would ever tell Sansa as much, but she'd been right when she'd claimed that he was hurting himself as much as he was hurting her. Sandor cared little and less for his own needs and feelings - _most times, anyway_ - but he hated himself for having to offend the little bird and cause her distress.

"Fucking wine," he suddenly swore, throwing the jug he'd been nursing - his third for the night - against a far wall. It shattered upon impact, its red contents leaving ugly dark streaks across the pretty pale marble. He knew that it wasn't just the wine that made him think these things, though.

He knew that he needed to go to her, but he still didn't know what he would say. Could he do the _right_ thing for once, and tell her that he was leaving? Or would he give in to her as he had so many times before, give in to her because she was the only thing that made him feel less like a dog and more like a human?

_Give in to her, though you know that leaving is the best thing for her...even as it's the _worst_ thing for you..._

Sandor pushed himself to his feet, his head swimming from the wine. He'd thought it weak, but having not allowed himself to drink like this in some time clearly didn't help things. Thankfully he'd been told where Sansa Stark's quarters were; unfortunately, he'd gotten so turned around in his quest for wine that he wasn't quite sure which way to go from here. He stumbled out of the kitchens and turned the opposite way from whence he'd come, his jaw clenched as he tried to reason out what in seven hells he would say to the little bird once he'd found her. _I can't leave you, not even if I wanted to. And I _don't_ want to._ It was a good start, but what if she responded by once again claiming that she loved him, or by reminding him that she wanted to wed him, or by simply throwing herself into his arms? The last would of course be the most preferable, but then he wasn't sure if he would be able to control himself just now - especially after abstaining from her for so long...

_You damn well better hold yourself back_. She would need him to be reserved, if the way she'd acted that first day on the ship was any indication...

Just then Sandor heard voices. They were barely more than quiet murmurs, drifting to him from around a corner, but he had the trained instincts of a warrior and could hear much of what they were saying.

"What would you have of me, Ser Willem?" a girl said, and Sandor would have known that voice anywhere. _The little bird._

"A...if you would be willing...I mean to say, if you wouldn't mind it should I..." Sandor's hands clenched into fists. What in seven hells was the little bird doing wandering this place alone with _him_, so late at night?

"Yes?"

"A kiss."

The silence stretched for several long moments, and Sandor couldn't help but hope that he'd merely missed her saying 'no'...until he _heard_ her whisper, "Yes. Yes, Ser Willem, you may kiss me. I...I would like to kiss you too, in fact."

Sandor moved as quietly as possible, and when he reached the end of the wall he leaned around it to see what he would see. Just one glimpse showed him more than he needed, more than he wanted. Ser Willem's hands were wrapped around Sansa's elbows, his head bent down toward hers, her head bent up toward his, their lips pressed together in a kiss that was far more chaste than most of the kisses Sansa had given him...

Yet it was a kiss nonetheless. A kiss from a handsome young knight, the very thing that Sansa Stark had always wanted.

She didn't need Sandor to protect her anymore, and perhaps he'd finally resisted her so much that she didn't want him as a...a what? Lover? Paramour? Hadn't they been both more and less than either of those things?

But then, what did it matter? Sandor turned around and stalked back to his quarters to gather his things. There weren't so many hours left before daylight, and he meant to be long gone before anyone thought to come looking for him.


	25. Sansa XII

**Sooo I've had this written and posted in other places for days and days but somehow I, err, forgot to post this chapter here on ! Oops :-/ (I blame it on their awful uploading policy, honestly...) But anyway, so all of my -only readers are getting two new chapters today, and I hope you enjoy! Thanks again to those who have stuck with this story for so long...I swear that I'm hoping to finish it sooner rather than later (of course, how many times have I said that now...haha)**

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><p>When Sandor left her alone at the pools, Sansa stood there for several minutes, shivering and trying not to cry. Finally she splashed back through the water to the edge where her robe lay. There was a soft blanket beside it and she used that to dry herself off a bit before wrapping the thin silken robe about herself. The echoing silence of the pillared gardens that surrounded Sansa unnerved her, and she quickly drew her slippers over her feet and began making her way back to her room.<p>

Only she took a wrong turn or two along the way, and soon enough she realized that she had no idea where she was. The Water Gardens was larger than she'd thought, and with a sigh of exasperation Sansa leaned out one of the wide openings, breathing in the night air and looking about, trying to get her bearings.

"My lady, what - "

Sansa gasped in fright and spun around, but once she realized it was only Ser Willem there behind her she sighed in relief. "Oh," she said, "it's only you. You frightened me...I wasn't sure..." She stopped, shook her head, and bit her lip. _You are safe here,_ she reminded herself.

"My apologies, Lady Sansa. I didn't mean - "

She waved him off. "No need for apologies, Ser Willem. Truth be told I'm glad to see you...I seem to have lost my way and I've got no idea how to find my room. I don't suppose you would be able to show me where it is?" Sansa grimaced.

Ser Willem smiled down at her. "I'm not certain where your chambers are located, but I would love to be of service to you. Come." He held out his arm for her. Sansa was about to take it when she realized that he likely had been about his own business before she interrupted him.

"I fear it is my turn to apologize to you, Ser...I'm sure you have things to do, or you wouldn't be up so late yourself...I can find my own way back, if you think you can point me in the right direction."

The handsome young knight chuckled. "If I need not apologize _to _you, I surely don't need apologies _from_ you. If I may be honest..."

"Please do," Sansa encouraged him. "So few people are."

"This is true. Then in the spirit of honesty, the reason I am wandering the halls at this time of night is because I could not sleep for thinking...for thinking of _you_."

Sansa had not expected such an admission. "Ser Willem, I - "

"You need not say anything, my lady. I know that I'm not worthy of you in any way. I simply...well, I admire you. Your strength, your courtesy, your beauty. I've never met a woman like you."

_A woman. He thinks me a woman..._ That was somehow more flattering than anything else Ser Willem had said, though the realization that he thought her _strong_ was wonderful as well. Yet his compliments also made her think of Sandor - why, she couldn't fathom - and just like that the moment was ruined for her.

"Lady Sansa? Are you...are you alright? You look..." Ser Willem paused, clearly unsure whether or not he should finish his observation. _Sad_, Sansa thought. _I look sad...because I _am_ sad...and I'm tired of being sad..._

"I'll be fine, Ser Willem," she finally replied, forcing a smile. "It has simply been a very long and trying day."

"Which you handled quite admirably," he insisted. "Are you sure you wouldn't like me to escort you to your quarters? Two minds are usually better than one, and I'm sure we could find them soon."

"I actually think I'd like to find them on my own," Sansa admitted. "Now that my heart is no longer pounding in my chest from being so startled by your sudden appearance, I see that it's a beautiful night...and I would appreciate some time alone."

The young man must have understood that she was teasing him a bit, yet he took her request to be by herself at face value, for which Sansa was grateful. He bowed low and bid her good night, then turned to leave. Suddenly, however, he stopped and faced her again. "Lady Sansa...I...I wondered if...if perhaps..."

"Yes?" she pressed, her curiosity getting the better of her. _Why has he suddenly become a stuttering mess?_

"I...as I said...I know that I am below you in every way possible..." He stopped again, and Sansa raised her eyebrows. She couldn't recall ever before seeing a man so nervous - especially not an innocent one who seemed to have nothing to make him stammer as Ser Willem was doing just now. She reached out and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

"What would you have of me, Ser Willem?"

"A...if you would be willing...I mean to say, if you wouldn't mind it, should I..."

"Yes?" Sansa had a slight idea as to what he was about to ask, so when Ser Willem finally spat the words out - apparently so concerned with her response that he could not even _look_ at her - she was more thoughtful than surprised.

"A kiss."

She found herself sizing him up. True, he was low-born - probably even more so than Sandor - but he was young_. _Loras Tyrell's age, possibly even younger. He had been kind to her, protective of her, and he was certainly handsome...and he _liked_ her, perhaps even _cared _for her...which was more than she could say for a certainty in regards to Sandor, just now.

_Sandor..._ He was the only man Sansa had ever kissed, and she suddenly found herself wondering what it would be like to experience such a thing with someone else. _And why not Ser Willem?_ He was asking so courteously, after all, and she certainly wasn't averse to the idea...

"Yes," Sansa heard herself say. Then, a bit louder, "Yes, Ser Willem, you may kiss me. I...I would like to kiss you too, in fact."

His face lit up and he stepped closer to her. He seemed unsure of himself, which was somewhat endearing to Sansa...but also a bit strange. When she'd showed her willingness to Sandor, he certainly hadn't shown so much reserve..._at least not at first_, she mused, pursing her lips. But then Ser Willem was running his fingertips down her upper arms, cupping his hands around her elbows to pull her closer, and she told herself to stop thinking about Sandor, to just..._be_...in this moment. Sansa closed her eyes and tipped her face up toward Ser Willem's.

When he kissed her it was tender - certainly far more so than she was used to - and though his lips were soft and his touch gentle, he was rigid with what she could only assume was nervousness. She let him kiss her for several moments, but all that she could think about was Sandor...and the last time she'd felt his lips on hers.

As young and handsome and chivalrous as Ser Willem was, he was not the man she wanted. _And he never will be, nor will any other man like him._

Sansa broke the kiss as gently as she could, but she could not hide the tears streaming down her cheeks. "Lady Sansa?" the knight said, his voice hoarse and full of concern.

"I..." She had to stop and wipe at her face with the sleeve of her robe. "I'm sorry, Ser Willem. I'm sorry."

And with that, she turned and fled from him, her slippered feet slapping against the tiled floor.

She had to find Sandor. She had to find him, find him and tell him..._What?_ No words would suffice, she knew, but perhaps...perhaps she could take his hands in hers and simply ask him to kiss her. Even if it was just one last time, she had to feel his lips on hers. Surely he would understand that, would be willing to give her that small bit of closure.

Though she didn't quite know where Sandor's chamber was located, somehow Sansa found her way there. The door had been flung wide open and Sandor hadn't shut it behind him - not that Sansa knew it was him, at first. She almost ran right by the room, but the sounds of someone throwing things about made her stop and take a step back.

And there he was, standing amidst the mess of his things. It took her a moment to understand what he was doing - that he was packing.

That he was _leaving._

"Sandor?" Her voice was strangled, and she didn't even try to hide how shocked and distressed she was at the thought that he would leave her like this - in the dead of night, without even a goodbye.

He slowly turned to face her, and when she looked into his eyes Sansa knew that he was angrier than she'd seen him in a very, very long time.


	26. Sandor XIII

He had so few possessions, yet what he _did_ own was strewn across the floor as he tried to find a way to bind it all up for his journey. Sandor had no idea where he would go - nor even any idea where he _could_ go, for that matter. As it turned out, he hadn't done much in the way of thinking at all since the little bird had so very literally fallen into his lap...he'd thought so much of her and so little of anything else, and now that she didn't need him anymore...

_And who's fault is that, you damnable dog?_ He'd pushed her away, after all, pushed and pushed until he'd shoved her right into handsome young Ser Willem's waiting arms. _Fuck it all._ He stopped for a moment and sucked air in through his nose, his jaw clenching of its own accord, the burnt side of his mouth twitching madly in his anger.

"Sandor?"

He tensed immediately. How had she found his quarters? Why in seven hells had she come here? He spun to face her, not bothering to hide just how angry he was - and somehow the fact that she was crying made him angrier still. He ground his teeth and finally asked, "What's wrong with you?"

Sansa Stark's face paled, her red-rimmed eyes widening as she gazed up at him like..._like a lost little puppy_, he thought, almost meanly. "I..." she began, then took a shuddering breath. "You...you're leaving me. I _need_ you, and you're leaving me. And you were going to do it without..." her voice hitched, and he realized that she was holding back a sob. "Without saying goodbye," she finally finished.

_That can't be it. Why is she crying like this? She was crying before she came here, that's for damn sure_, Sandor knew. Suddenly a horrible idea dawned on him, and almost without thinking he strode toward the little bird, using one hand to slam the door shut behind her and then grabbing hold of her shoulders more roughly than he'd meant to do. "Did he hurt you?" Sandor growled. "Did he force himself on you?"

She had flinched when he'd taken hold of her, but she was looking him directly in the eye now and was clearly bewildered. "I...I don't know what you mean..." the little bird stammered.

"_Ser_ Willem," Sandor forced himself to say. "You're _crying_! What in seven hells did he do to you?"

"Ser Willem? What did he...?" Sansa stopped. "Oh," she murmured. "Oh."

"_Oh?_ Tell me, little bird, tell me what happened, and I swear - " _I'll kill him. I'll rip him limb from limb. I'll -_

"You saw," was all that she said in response.

Sandor's jaw clenched automatically. He hadn't meant for her to find out, but he'd obviously slipped up. Still, he had to know what had happened to make her cry like this. "Aye, I saw. Saw you _willingly_ give _Ser_ Willem a kiss. But if he laid his hands on you in...in a way you didn't want..." _I'll kill him. I'll rip him limb from limb. I'll_ -

The little bird averted her eyes. "No. No, it wasn't...wasn't anything like _that_."

He shook her, though not ungently. "Well? What is it then? _Tell me_."

Sansa paused. He could feel her trembling, a sensation that both frustrated and thrilled him. "You," she finally whispered. "I kissed him, yes, because...because I wanted to know what it was like. To kiss someone who wasn't you. And then...I was so...so _rude_...I broke away from him and came to find you, because it wasn't the same. It wasn't _right._ I...I know that you don't want me anymore, but I couldn't - "

Sandor couldn't stop himself, then. Couldn't stop himself from bending his head and kissing her, because he'd wanted to for so long, because she'd let some other man - a man who was possibly far more worthy of her, in so many ways - kiss her...and yet she hadn't wanted Ser Willem, had somehow, for some gods-only-knew reason, kissed that man and yet wanted _him_, Sandor Clegane, instead.

And gods be damned, he _needed_ her.

Her mouth opened for him as it always had, and in that moment he knew that though he _should_ leave, he never would. Sansa Stark may not _need_ him, but she _wanted_ him. He didn't know why, and he knew that he didn't deserve this - didn't deserve _her_ - but it was clear that pushing her away had gotten him nowhere.

So just now he drew her close, one large hand splayed across the small of her back, wanting to feel her body pressed against his. Did he _know_ that this couldn't last forever? Well, deep down he at least _assumed_ as much. But he was done thinking and worrying about some indeterminate point in the future, and he almost didn't even care about what had brought him to this point - not so long as she didn't hate him for everything that he'd done. _Fuck_, he realized suddenly, _I have to apologize._

He abruptly broke their embrace, holding the little bird away from him so that he could look into her eyes. "Sansa," he began, almost hating himself for how hoarse with emotion his voice was, "I'm...I shouldn't have..."

She reached up and placed a finger over his lips, gazing at him with an affectionate smile. "No, you shouldn't have. And I'm not saying that we should pretend the past weeks didn't exist. But I know - "

"No. Let me say it," he insisted. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I - " He broke off, realizing - _seven hells_ - realizing that there was a lump in his throat and that if he didn't stop talking, he'd start _crying_.

"We'll talk about that later," Sansa whispered. "For now..." She stopped talking, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed him again. After just a moment's hesitation Sandor bent to her will, which he'd wanted to do for so very long, anyway. _She'll bend me until I break,_ he knew, _though she'll not _mean_ for that to happen...it _will_ happen. Eventually._

He wrapped his arms about her and lifted her, carrying her to the bed and laying her down, breaking their kiss for a moment to look at her there, to wonder at how she seemed to belong. In that place, but not _to_ him - simply _with_ him. "What?" she murmured, gazing up at him with eyes full of longing. "What is it?"

"You," he replied, lowering himself over her, careful to suspend himself enough so as not to crush her under his weight. He ran his fingers along the place where her robe had fallen open, nearly baring her breasts, and felt her shudder and arch her back so that her hips ground against him.

"Sandor," she said, her voice full of longing, almost strangled with it. He thought for a moment that she would speak the words he wanted to hear, and yet didn't want her to say, so he buried his face against her neck, brushing his lips over the hollow where it met her shoulder as his hand reached down and hiked up her hem, his fingers finding that warm wet place between her legs and caressing it until she said his name again, half sigh, half moan. "_Sandor_..."

"Sansa," he replied, placing his mouth against her ear as he worked at her, pressing his rock hard cock against her leg, wondering how in seven hells he was holding himself back just now. "Sansa," he repeated. "Sansa, I love you."

She came with a sound that was part shock and part pure desire, and somehow from the mere knowledge that he had brought her to her climax combined with the simple friction of rubbing himself against her, his release quickly followed. Sandor rolled onto his back, bringing the little bird with him and tucking her body against his. He'd meant what he said - damn it all, he _did_ love her - but he knew that speaking the words out loud would change everything, and Sandor wasn't sure if he was quite ready for that.

Yet all Sansa did was press herself closer to him. He could feel her tracing her fingers over his chest through the thin tunic that he wore, and he buried his face in her hair, breathing her scent and wishing that he didn't have to tell her to leave, to return to her own chambers.

"Thank you," she finally said.

Sandor couldn't help but chuckle. "Still such a courteous little bird."

He felt her laugh as well, and in response he merely tightened his grip on her. Yes, she would have to return to her own bed, and probably very soon..._but not just now. Not quite yet._ For now, he wanted to relish the knowledge that not only had he understood what_ she_ wanted from _him_, but that Sansa herself had understood what he _needed_ from her.


	27. Sansa XIII

The room was bright with morning sunlight when she awoke, and as Sansa stretched and tried to get her bearings she realized that she was not in her own chambers. Hers were large and airy with a wide, soft bed and other sumptuous furnishings; this room was much smaller, with little in the way of decoration.

And she was lying on a firm bed, her back pressed against Sandor's chest.

_Oh, no. Oh, no no no_, she thought, panicking as she tried to extract herself from his arms. _If anyone realizes I'm not in my room...if anyone finds me here..._

Just then, a banging on the door roused Sandor from his sleep. At first he seemed confused about where he was, as well - or perhaps simply about why _she_ was there - but once he understood the situation he snapped, "_Fuck_." The person banged on the door again, and after exchanging a dismayed look with her, Sandor growled, "What in hells is going on?"

"Clegane, it's Ser Willem. Lady Sansa has gone missing! She's not in her chambers and no one can find her!"

Sansa's heart was thudding in her chest as she looked to her right, then to her left, trying to find a place where she could hide when Sandor inevitably had to open the door for Ser Willem...but the room was a sparse one. The bed was too low to the floor, and there wasn't even a wardrobe...she had nowhere to go, and Ser Willem was becoming more insistent, pounding on the door again as he called out, "Clegane, open up, dammit, you need to come help us look for her!" Sansa reached for Sandor's hand and grabbed hold of it, her grip so tight that her knuckles went white. He took her chin between thumb and forefinger and forced her to look at him.

"This is bad, little bird," he told her.

"I know," Sansa murmured, "but wasn't it always going to happen eventually? Us getting caught, I mean? Isn't that why you pushed me away these past weeks?" _It has to be why,_ she mused. _He _loves_ me...so why else would he have wanted so badly to avoid me?_

Sandor looked uncomfortable and averted his eyes. "Aye, it was always going to happen, little bird. If we kept doing this, I mean. And now...here we are."

"Here we are," Sansa repeated, squeezing his hand. "And I wouldn't want to be anywhere else, or _with_ anyone else. We'll make them see. We'll make them understand."

"I doubt that, little bird. I doubt that very much."

"There's only one way to find out," Sansa insisted. She scrambled off the bed and straightened her robe and hair as best she could, gesturing for Sandor to stand and make himself presentable as well. Finally she strode to the door and pulled it open. "I'm right here, Ser Willem," she announced, as calmly as she could manage. Sansa saw the shock register on the young knight's face, though he quickly tried to hide it.

"Lady Sansa - I - a maidservant arrived to serve you breakfast this morning, and you were not in your chambers..." His face went red and he focused his gaze on the floor, clearly wanting to look at something, anything, other than her. _Not that I can blame him, after..._but no, she wouldn't think about that. There was no need. She didn't owe Ser Willem anything, and clearly she had other issues to deal with just now.

"I could not sleep last night, and as I wandered the halls I heard noises...as if someone was throwing their belongings about. Perhaps it was silly of me to follow such sounds, but I was curious...and I'm glad, in the end, that I gave in to my own curiosity, because I came upon Sandor packing as if to leave. I've spent the better part of the past several hours convincing him that he mustn't do so, of course." It wasn't entirely a lie, and not the best of stories, either - but Sansa could not forget Sandor's own insistence that she was a horrible liar. Besides, no matter her reasons it was not proper for her to be in Sandor's room with him, alone, the door shut and locked...

Luckily for her and Sandor, though, Ser Willem seemed overly inclined to believe her story - likely because he simply _wanted_ to believe it, rather than face the idea that Sansa had fled from his arms and into Sandor's. The knight breathed what could only be a sigh of relief. "I'm just glad that we've located you, my lady. You must be exhausted - and hungry? May I escort you to your own chambers so that you can partake in a traditional Dornish breakfast?"

"Thank you, ser, but I believe that Sandor can show me to my room." She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and continued, "He owes me that much after the fright he gave me last night, threatening to leave as he did."

Ser Willem obviously didn't care for this idea, but he was too well mannered to argue his case. "Very well, my lady. I hope to see you later today?"

Sansa smiled beatifically. "Certainly - perhaps we can all sup together? I understand that Prince Doran does not want very many people to see me about this palace, so I'm afraid that you and Sandor are the only company I can keep at the moment." From behind her Sansa heard Sandor give an annoyed grunt, and when Ser Willem raised his head to glare at the other man over Sansa's shoulder she reached out and gently laid her hand on the young knight's arm, hoping to pull his attention back toward herself. "If that will be all, ser, I think I will take your advice and return to my own chambers for a bit of food and some rest. I will ask after you later, closer to the evening meal."

The handsome young man nodded reluctantly, bowed, and finally left her alone with Sandor. Sansa turned to face this man who she loved, unable to keep herself from smiling...but he was not smiling back. "That was close," he snarled in frustration - but Sansa refused to be cowed.

"It was," she agreed, "but thankfully it was only Ser Willem - "

"_Only_ Ser Willem? Did you _see _the way he looked at me, little bird? If he didn't suspect something before, he sure as hells does now! We're going to have to be far more careful than this, or risk the Martells throwing you out on your pretty little arse_."_

"For what?" Sansa demanded. "For loving you?"

"That. And for acting on those feelings. The Martells can keep you _safe,_ Sansa, and you can't tell me that you want to give that up!" Sandor insisted.

Sansa smiled again, and shook her head. "No, I don't want to lose the Martells' protection," she admitted, "but if it meant being with you, _truly_ being with you, I'd leave this place in an instant. You kept me safe for quite some time; you could do so again, if need be." She reused to question this of all things; even without Sandor's declaration of love, she knew that so long as he lived he would never let any harm come to her.

"Don't be a silly little bird," Sandor spat. "You wanted to come to Dorne, and here we are. Don't tell me that now you want to _leave_."

"Is that what I said? No," she retorted, her hands settling on her hips in a most unladylike manner. "If we had no other choice, I'd leave - so long as I knew that you would be with me. But for as long as we're here, I plan to make the best of it." She stepped into his arms, and it was naught but a moment before he wrapped them around her and kissed the top of her head, pressing his lips there for several long moments.

"This whole thing is foolish, little bird," he mumbled into her hair. Sansa pressed her cheek against his chest and breathed in his scent, musky sweat and wine and something else that was entirely his.

"Of course it is," she replied. _But I wouldn't have it any other way._ "Now would you please show me back to my chambers? It's past time I had breakfast, and I may not be able to explain away my presence here a second time."

Sandor chuckled and released her. "Finally, the little bird chirps some sense."

Sansa hit his chest playfully. "Little bird, little bird," she mocked, grinning. "Why don't you call me by my name more often?"

"What, Sansa? It's not nearly as..." he trailed off.

"Amusing?"

Sandor nodded.

"I suppose you're right." She tucked her hand inside his elbow and they left his room, walking in silence for some time as Sansa tried to remember where her own chambers were located. When they finally reached them, she glanced around to make sure no one was around to see, and then gave Sandor a soft kiss on his scarred cheek. "I missed this," she whispered. "I missed _us_."

"As did I, Sansa," Sandor admitted. She reached up to caress his face.

"I will see you in a little while, then?" He nodded again, and with one last glance back she let herself into her room and closed the door behind her, leaning against it and hugging herself. _That was a close call_, she knew...

_But it was so very worth it,_ another part of her was saying.

And Sansa smiled.


	28. Sandor XIV

**Well...it's about that time, and I've started struggling with this fic again. Today you guys get a two-fer (as in, two new chapters), and hopefully it won't be an extremely long time before I'm able to update again...buuuut I can't promise anything, because, sadly, this fic does need to come to an end soon and I'm finding it very difficult to write said ending. But for now, I hope everyone at least enjoys the two new chapters :)**

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><p>They were both fools, that much was certain. He hated to admit it, but clearly he was as much of one as the little bird. And to add to his frustration, now he had to sit through an uncomfortable meal with her and Ser Willem, if only for the small possibility that doing so would alleviate any suspicions that the knight may have regarding Sansa's presence in Sandor's room this morning.<p>

Sandor still wasn't even certain how that had happened - one moment they had been lying in bed, sated but awake...the next..._Bugger me._ Sandor knew that he should have made her leave immediately, but admittedly...he hadn't _wanted_ her to leave. And now...well, how in hells were they going to keep something like that from happening again, unless one or both of them kept their distance? Except that now, he'd given in to her - given in to _himself_, really - and he knew that he wouldn't be able to push her away a second time.

_All the same, this is a dangerous, stupid game that we play._ Sandor's lip curled as he considered what the future - at least, the _near_ future - held for him. _For us._

Likely it would include having to spend far too much time with Ser Willem, and though Sansa hadn't appeared to notice the expression on that young knight's face - the look in his eyes when she'd opened the door to Sandor's room that morning - Sandor himself certainly hadn't been able to ignore it. Disbelief, at first, followed very quickly by concern - and then, compounded by jealousy. The little bird had smoothed the situation over as only she could, but Sandor couldn't entirely forget his own doubts._Besides, she certainly can't deny that he wants her. Not anymore._ His hands automatically clenched into fists at the thought, and he had to push it from his mind with the reminder that it didn't matter, because Sansa Stark didn't want Ser Willem the knight.

This was a fact that Sandor had to remember several times a day for the next fortnight. It seemed as if Ser Willem dogged his every footstep - or perhaps it was Sansa whom the young knight was following around, but either way it left little and less time for she and Sandor to be alone together. Perhaps once a day there would be a moment in which he could pull her aside and embrace her, maybe even press his lips to hers for far too brief a time - and after all those days and weeks spent apart, the fact that he still had to keep his distance from his little bird was nearly driving Sandor crazy.

Not that he'd ever admit that to anyone - not even to Sansa herself.

"Will it always be this way?" the little bird chirped in frustration one night. Sandor had pressed her up against the wall just outside of her chambers, clutching desperately at her hips as he bent to kiss her, but before their lips could touch they heard footsteps and were forced to leap apart just before Sansa's maidservant rounded the corner.

The young servant did her best to avoid looking at them as she let herself into Sansa's rooms, but the door remained open and rather than answer Sansa's question Sandor merely glared at her and whispered hoarsely, "Not now - keep quiet." The little bird opened her mouth to protest, but he jerked his chin toward the open door and, with a sigh, she obeyed his command to remain silent.

"Meet me at the pools later," Sansa murmured. "Make sure you aren't followed."

Sandor couldn't help but snort his amusement at the grimace that passed over her lips. Clearly she had noticed that Ser Willem did his best to never leave the two of them alone, and apparently - despite her courteous demeanor around the other man - she wasn't any happier with the situation than Sandor himself was. "I don't know, little bird...if we're caught..."

"We will be careful as can be," she promised, reaching up as if to straighten his tunic and letting her fingertips linger along its neckline, brushing them against his skin in a way that made him want to gather her in his arms and take her right then and there.

"Aye, as we always are, and it's still not careful enough," he growled as he pushed her hand away. For a moment Sansa looked hurt, but then her expression became a blank mask.

"But you'll meet me?" she pressed.

Sandor grunted in annoyance, but then nodded. Sansa smiled at him as if she'd known all along that he wouldn't refuse, then turned and swept into her room without a backward glance. He was left standing in the hall and wondering what to do to wile away the hours - not to mention wondering when exactly she would meet him at the pools. Sandor knew better than to return to his own rooms, or even to visit Stranger in the stables - doing either of those things would likely lead to Ser Willem finding and tailing him for the rest of the evening.

But of course, he couldn't very well stay _here_, right outside his little bird's room. Sandor glanced down the hall to make sure that no one else was around, then wandered off in the general direction of the pools, figuring that he could hide in the orange groves near them and keep an eye out for Sansa's arrival. He felt like a damned boy, sneaking around like this...but as much as he hated it and despised himself for doing it, apparently those feelings weren't enough to make him stop. Not when _she_ was involved. Sandor snorted, amused at the fact that he had ended up in this place, physically - being in Dorne at all, that is - and the fact that he had ended up here emotionally, as well. _Emotions._ Other than the animosity he had for Gregor, Sandor couldn't even remember truly _feeling_ anything before Sansa Stark had come into his life. And now...

He wandered through an archway and out into the gardens just before reaching the pools, not wanting to encounter any servants or children who would be bathing or playing in them. Sandor found a spot where he could sit on the ground with his back to an orange tree and see the entrance to the pools without being spotted himself, and he settled in to wait for his little bird.

_My little bird._ When had she suddenly become _my, _rather than just _the_? She was no item to be owned, yet he understood now that they were tied to each other. Understood it...and nearly accepted it. _Nearly_.

Sandor leaned his head back against the tree behind him and closed his eyes. He hadn't been sleeping well lately; every time he laid down on his bed, alone, he recalled their many nights of traveling...how during those nights he'd been able to hold her close, and that he may never be able to do so - may never be _free_ to do so - again. As he sat there in the warm yet shady garden and thought about Sansa Stark and how she'd pressed herself against him both when she was awake and when she was asleep, Sandor's cock went hard. He wanted nothing more than to stroke himself to release, but he could still hear the splashes of the Water Garden residents who hadn't yet abandoned the pools for the day - and he sure as seven hells couldn't risk being caught...

He awoke with a start when the breeze changed suddenly, blowing across him with a chill such as he hadn't felt since before he and Sansa had reached Dorne. Apparently Sandor had slept away the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening as well - it was dark outside and he could see only a few lights still burning through the archways of the Water Gardens. _Fuck_. Could he have missed Sansa's arrival? Was she now wandering the empty halls wondering where he'd gone, or even worse...had she been accosted by Ser Willem while trying to find Sandor? He clambered to his feet and rushed past the dimly-lit area where the pools were located, through an archway and up the hall toward Sansa's chambers -

And then, suddenly, there she was, both of them hurrying so fast to find each other that Sandor practically knocked her off her feet when he rounded the corner and ran into her. For a moment they were tangled together and he didn't even know who she was, but then he caught a whiff of her familiar scent and saw a nearby torch reflected in her shiny red hair and he almost laughed.

"Little bird, little bird, it's _me_," he insisted, and she finally stopped struggling in his arms.

"Oh," Sansa breathed. "I - I'm sorry, I ran right into you, I didn't know - "

"It's all right," he replied, holding her at arm's length for a moment while he gathered himself. "Though we should probably go to the pools _now_, before anyone else can find us here."

Sansa nodded knowingly and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. "Lead the way."

Yet again noting how much he hated having to plan out their every move together, Sandor eyed the hall behind them before pressing forward. When they reached a long, straight stretch and he was certain that no one was around, he noted, "I was worried I'd missed you. I fell asleep..."

"Sleep," Sansa sighed. "Sleep would be nice. I wanted to come earlier, but I was..."

"Detained by your friend Ser Willem? He wasn't..._bothering_ you, was he?" Sandor growled. The thought that the young knight was being in any way persistent with Sansa lit his mind afire with jealousy.

"Not...not exactly," Sansa said slowly. "He has not tried to kiss me again, or even hinted that he wants to do so, if that's what you mean. But it's clear that he still...suspects something." Sandor looked down at her and saw that she was smiling in bemusement. "I believe he thinks that he is protecting me. From you, I mean."

"I know what you meant." _It will always be like this,_ Sandor reminded himself. No one would ever believe that she had come to him willingly, and if they weren't careful it would cause more problems than - _than what? More problems than it's worth?_ He had to stop himself from scoffing out loud. If there was one thing he'd learned in the weeks he'd distanced himself from Sansa, it was that this - _she_ - was worth any and everything. Still, to lay that same burden on her, when she had the potential for a life he could never dare to dream of...

"Sandor? What's wrong?" She was looking up at him with wide eyes full of concern, but after everything else he'd put her through Sandor couldn't bring himself to tell her what he'd been thinking of just then.

"Nothing's wrong," he lied. "We shouldn't be talking just now, anyone could hear us." He quickened his pace and tried to push out of his mind thoughts of anything but the possibility that in just a few moments, he would be alone at the pools with his little bird.


	29. Sansa XIV

She knew that Sandor had something on his mind, but she also knew better than to insist that he tell her what it was. _If it was something pressing, he would tell me. _He'd always been honest with her, after all - and wasn't that a large part of why she'd fallen in love with him in the first place?

_Love._ He'd said it to her - finally told her that he loved her - yet neither one of them had repeated the word since then. There had been a few moments in recent days when Sansa had worried that he hadn't truly _meant_ to say it...that if he had, he would have repeated it every chance he got...but deep down she knew that this wasn't the case. _He is not the type to say such things over and over again_. Sansa also understood that clinging to him and making constant declarations of her own love would do her no good, and she was thankful that more often than not a mere look or a quick touch sufficed when it came to communicating their feelings for one another.

The wind had picked up and was whistling through the tree branches and archways as Sandor led Sansa to the pools. It had been a warm day - unseasonably warm, Sansa's maidservant had pointed out - but it appeared that the gods wanted to remind the Dornish that winter was coming. _Eventually we will have no choice but to stay here._ Though she was safe for the moment, this idea still frightened Sansa - that if winter arrived in full force, blocking the mountain passes and keeping ships from coming and going, Dorne would in a way become just as much a prison to her as King's Landing had been. The people may be kinder, but she knew better than to assume that this would last forever. The truth of the matter was that as heir to the North, she was dangerous to every ruling House in Westeros...though less so to the Martells, of course. That - and their hatred of the Lannisters - gave her some leeway with Prince Doran. _But is it enough?_

_And how long will it last?_

When they arrived at the pools and found them empty, though, all other thoughts flew from Sansa's head. She knew that they had to be careful, but the hour was late and the only light came from a few random torches and from the moonglow shining through the archways. _The chance of someone finding us here now _must _be slim,_ she promised herself as she removed her hand from Sandor's arm and pushed her robe from her shoulders, letting it pool around her feet. She ignored Sandor's noises of protest as she reached for the hem of her shift and lifted it over her head, tossing it aside so that she was standing fully naked at the edge of the pools. "Well, are you going to enjoy this with me?" Sansa asked.

Clearly unsure of the safety of the situation, Sandor looked around them, grumbling his concern as he finally began removing his tunic. Sansa turned and stepped into the water, which, thanks to the still-hot days, was much warmer than the air. She lowered herself until the water was lapping at her chin, then turned and smiled at Sandor as he followed her lead. Just before he reached her, though, Sansa giggled softly and swam away from him, leading him into the shadows at the far end of the pool, where it would be less likely that someone would see them. She could hear him splashing and cursing behind her_. _Sansa turned and laid her finger over her lips. They were alone for now, but they wouldn't be for long if he kept making so much noise.

Her gesture clearly frustrated him even more, but thankfully Sandor took the hint. He dipped underwater and swam toward Sansa, which startled her - _she_ could swim, of course, having learned in the godswood pools in Winterfell, but knowing how to swim - especially underwater - was not exactly a common thing. In the work of a moment, though, her surprise was forgotten - Sandor resurfaced right in front of her and wrapped his large hands about her waist, pushing her back against the edge of the pool and kissing her vigorously. She wrapped her arms and legs around him and kissed him back in kind, wondering at the fact that he seemed to just _know_ how to embrace her.

Sandor broke their kiss, twisting Sansa's wet hair around one hand and pulling her head back, baring her neck and trailing his lips down it. As usual the feel of them - the contrast between their good side and bad side - made her skin tingle with pent-up pleasure. He buried his face between her breasts and ground his hips into her, and Sansa felt heat building deep within, felt as if she could fairly burst from it. "Sandor..." she moaned, her voice sounding strange to her, strangled as it was with want, with _need_. His mouth found hers again, perhaps to silence her more than anything else, and she clutched desperately at his slippery-wet back, positioning herself so that his manhood rested against her woman's place. He was still wearing his breeches, and though they were all that separated her skin from his Sansa wanted nothing more than for him to remove them as an obstacle and to feel him inside of her, _truly_ inside of her...

Perhaps Sandor sensed her desire, but somehow he knew better, somehow he had enough self-control to stop her when she moved her hands down and tugged at the waist of those breeches. He brushed her arms out of the way and cupped his hands around her buttocks, his fingers deftly parting her folds, one of them gently dipping inside of her while another flicked at her nub. The water lapping about them somehow made Sansa feel warm, safe, secure; the feel of it moving against her and between them seemed to punctuate her arousal. She pressed herself into Sandor's hand, and he suddenly pulled away from her with a grunt of frustration.

"Careful there, little bird," he warned. "That maidenhead of yours is too precious to throw away just now."

Of course she knew that he was right. Sansa reached for him, wrapping her hand around the back of his neck to pull her body close to his again. She moved one hand between them and cupped it over his manhood, and she couldn't help but smile when he closed his eyes and tipped his head back, clearly allowing himself to relish her touch.

And then, a low growl rising in his throat, he was on her again, nipping at her ear, at her neck, biting down on her lip as he pulled her hand away and shoved her back against the edge of the pool again, his hips bucking against hers as he held her in place. There was nothing more than the thin, wet layer of breechcloth between his hard manhood and her woman's place, and the feel of it nestled amongst her folds, the friction as he so closely mimicked the act of making love, drove Sansa to desperation. She clutched at his huge upper arms and pushed her back against the hard edge of the pool, heedless to the feel of it digging into her muscles and bones as Sandor drove himself against her. Suddenly his mouth was on her breasts, first one and then the other, his teeth raking their soft skin and biting down - almost _too_ hard - on her nipples. It was painful, yet she would not even entertain the thought of pushing him away, not now as his movements became more frantic, not now as she felt that pain combine with the pleasure roiling inside her, the two crashing together and bringing her to a peak the likes of which she would swear she'd never felt before.

Sandor clearly had his release just moments after Sansa shuddered her own. It was as if he felt her pulse against him, she realized - no sooner had she clenched her jaw and dug her nails into his skin to keep herself from crying out in pleasure than she felt him go suddenly still, and then jerk his hips upward once, twice, thrice, fast and hard, before allowing himself a low groan and relaxing his hold on her. He pressed his forehead against hers, their lips brushing against each other. "This can't keep happening," he mumbled. "I don't know how I'm holding myself back...and we're not being...discreet...enough."

"I know," Sansa sighed in agreement, running her fingers through his hair and burying her face against his neck. She wanted more than anything to remind him that it was very likely that the Martells would quite enjoy helping her prove that she was a maid and then annulling her marriage to Tyrion, thus leaving her free to wed again...but she was afraid that he would pull away from her a second time, thinking that in doing so he was protecting her more than he could by being at her side. No, she would have to wait until someone else suggested such a thing, preferably in his presence.

She would have to hope that someone here in Dorne - preferably Prince Doran - would see the opportunity of assisting her and also rendering her next to powerless by dividing her from the Lannisters and then by wedding her to someone of no consequence. She had somehow been able to say the proper things at the proper times - been able to play the game, as it were - this past month or so...but the true question was, how far could she take it?


	30. Sandor XV

**Sorry that it's taken me a bit more than a week to get this one up! I really am trying to post at least one chapter a week until this fic is finished. It *is* drawing to a conclusion, and fairly soon at that - I've actually put aside other fics for the time being, because this one has been so long in the writing and I'm ready for it to be completed ;) As always, thanks to all for the kudos and reviews...they are much appreciated!**

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><p>He held her close for as long as he dared, but all too soon they had to climb out of the pools, dress themselves, and head back to their respective chambers. He wanted to escort Sansa to her room, and it took everything in Sandor to keep himself from doing so. <em>She's safe here<em>, he reminded himself, _and if we are caught wandering the halls together, so late at night..._

Not to mention with wet clothes and damp hair from their foray into the pools...

Just the thought of what they'd just done made his cock go hard again. Sandor grumbled to himself, frustrated with his own weaknesses. Part of him wanted to tell Sansa that they should abandon this place and run off to Braavos or Pentos or even the Summer Isles, before the weather could keep them from doing so - but then he knew that this wouldn't be what she truly wanted. Were they to cross the Narrow Sea and set up a home for just the two of them, what could ever pull them out of hiding and back to Westeros? _Very few things_, Sandor knew...and he also understood that Sansa wanted to return to the North, to return to Winterfell and rebuild it and probably raise a family there.

That idea stopped Sandor in his tracks. _A family_. He'd never thought to have a family, not even before he'd joined Joffrey's jape of a kingsguard. Still, even if Sansa wanted one, the idea of her wanting one with_ him_ was laughable at best. If she returned to Winterfell she'd need to marry some Northern lord..._unless she never returns to Winterfell_, Sandor reminded himself. He would never force her to stay with him - he'd never been that type of man. _Not like my father. Not like Gregor._ The memories tasted bitter on his tongue.

If he'd believed in any of the gods, Sandor surely would have prayed to every one of them right then and there - prayed for him and Sansa to be given a reason to leave Dorne, and for that reason to force them away from Westeros for good. And though he didn't believe in gods, he still couldn't stop himself from hoping that they would experience just such a reason - and perhaps sooner rather than later...

The next morning dawned much cooler than any before it since they'd arrived in Dorne, and as soon as he found his little bird Sandor knew that the brisk air was doing them a service. Without it he doubted he could have kept his eyes open all day, and it appeared that Sansa hadn't gotten any more sleep than him. Not that he dared comment on or ask about such a thing - of course Ser Willem was there as well, and the young knight would not take even a hint that Sandor had spent a moment alone with Sansa lightly. They'd been lucky this one time, but they couldn't expect to always have it so easy.

Apparently Sansa understood this as well as - or better than - Sandor himself did. Days passed without her pulling him aside or coming to him, and though he wanted to take her in his arms and ask her why, wanted to touch her and kiss her and hold her without worrying about who would see or what anyone at the Water Gardens - _or anyone at all, ever_ - would think, he did his best to follow her lead. Had Sansa not made her true feelings clear several times a day with a light brush of her fingers down his arm or with a meaningful glance his way, it would have been much more difficult...and yet nothing could have prepared him for what _did_ eventually happen.

It was a day seemingly like any other - full of quiet solitude and frustration with his and the little bird's current situation - yet its similarity to the day before it and the day before that was broken the moment Ser Willem appeared at Sandor's side, out of breath, his face lined with concern. "What do you want?" Sandor growled, annoyed that Ser Willem was so busy trying to catch his breath that he apparently couldn't tell Sandor what was wrong.

"We need...to find...Lady Sansa..." the young man gasped. "There's been a raven...from Sunspear...the princess...Myrcella...injured...the Prince...sending her...sending her _here_!" Ser Willem finally finished his announcement, looking wildly at Sandor as if waiting for the proper reaction.

For his part, though, Sandor's mind was in turmoil. Princess Myrcella had somehow been injured? And because of that, Doran Martell felt the need to disrupt Sansa Stark's peace and send his other little hostage here to the Water Gardens? Of course that would mean that Sansa couldn't stay - though she and Myrcella hadn't seen each other for quite some time, the chances of the little bird being recognized by the princess - or by one of her Lannister guards - were far too high.

And then suddenly it hit him. _You _fool. _You fucking fool._

Gods or no gods, had he somehow willed this thing to happen? It was too soon for Sansa Stark to even attempt a return to Winterfell, and how often in these past days - weeks, even - had Sandor hoped that she never would? "How long do we have?" he asked gruffly.

"A few more days at most. They can't move her right away...her injuries are apparently quite grievous..."

"Injuries? Who is injured?"

Sandor closed his eyes for a moment, clenching his jaw and drawing a deep breath. _How long has she been standing there?_

Ser Willem started to speak, but Sandor quickly opened his eyes and interrupted the other man with a glare - and then Sandor turned to face his little bird. "Ser Willem received word from Sunspear - Princess Myrcella has come to harm, somehow, and I...I'm afraid that we may have to leave this place. They have to bring her here, and - "

"We cannot stay here if she is here." Sansa's voice was flat, her face nearly expressionless, but he'd seen it fall as soon as he'd mentioned that they would have to leave.

"Don't fret, my lady - Prince Doran will surely find the perfect place for you, somewhere even safer than the Gardens - "

"I'm certain he will," Sansa replied, but her tone was more short than courteous. "Ser Willem, please excuse me. Sandor, walk with me?"

With a brusque nod, Sandor offered her his arm, and as they strode away from Ser Willem Sandor mumbled, "He's right, little bird. Doran Martell will find somewhere for us to go."

"_Us_?" Sansa repeated, cutting her eyes up to him. She was smiling, but he could see that it was at least partially forced.

"Or you and Ser Willem, if you'd rather," he forced himself to reply. She had teased him and he was teasing her back, that was all...but he didn't feel that this was quite the time. Sansa squeezed his arm, and they walked in silence for some time. Sandor wanted to ask her where they were going...but somehow he knew that right now it wouldn't matter, and that she probably didn't have an answer for him anyway. _If that would even be the right question, to begin with._ Did he want to know where she was leading him just now, if it was anywhere at all...or did he want to know where they would go in a day or two or three, when they inevitably had to flee the Water Gardens before Myrcella's arrival?

Finally Sansa stopped walking. She pulled Sandor toward an archway where they could look out over the orange trees to the arid landscape beyond. "Sometimes I wish that I had someone telling me what to do," she admitted. "I'm so very tired of running and hiding."

Sandor couldn't help but speak the hard truth. "You may spend the rest of your life running and hiding, little bird. At least you were able to get something of a reprieve here, even if it was only for a short while...and we'll find somewhere to go, a place where we'll be able to stay for longer."

He felt her withdraw her hand from his arm as she asked, "Will we?" Sandor glanced down at her, but she was still gazing out into the distance, looking more melancholy than he'd seen her in quite some time.

"Why don't we go find Ser Willem ." Sandor grimaced at the thought of having to do so. "You can read Doran Martell's note for yourself, and then..." he trailed off, not knowing what to say that could make her feel better.

But after one last, longing look out at the surrounding countryside, Sansa finally nodded in agreement. "You're right. I should read this note for myself, perhaps even send a reply to the Prince. We have a few days...there's no reason to be quite so hasty..."

He knew that she was lying to herself, but for once Sandor couldn't bring himself to point this out. Instead, he silently offered her his arm again. Sansa took it, and he turned them back the way they'd come, hating himself for not speaking with the harsh honesty that she needed to hear.

And hating himself even more for having so badly wanted this opportunity to leave Dorne, when she so clearly wanted to stay.


	31. Sansa XV

Soooo I thought I'd been uploading these chapters to and updating this on here, and I guess it completely slipped my mind! I'm so very sorry, but if you've only been reading this story here...well, at least you get a whole bunch of new chapters at once? ;)

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><p>She was torn about this latest of news, and confused as well. Truth be told, Sansa had thought about leaving this place at least once a day in recent weeks. She knew that leaving here would likely mean having more time with Sandor - that Ser Willem would not be constantly watching them anymore, at least - and she could not deny that she desired that change.<p>

But the beauty and _safety_ of the Water Gardens had grown on her, and now that their departure was imminent Sansa understood that she'd never truly _wanted_ to have to leave. _Did I somehow bring this upon us?_ she wondered at first - but no, she couldn't have. She may have thought about their having to leave, may have even desired it in certain moments of frustration at being constantly watched, unable to spend proper time with Sandor...but she'd never outright asked for it, never prayed for it..._not that praying would matter much._ She was too far removed from the old gods, having not visited a godswood since King's Landing, and Sansa had long ago learned that the Seven were not the gods of the Starks - they were not _her_ gods.

Sansa let Sandor lead her back to Ser Willem. They found him near the kitchens, and the three of them requested that food and wine be brought to her chambers before heading there themselves. The two men took a seat while she read Prince Doran's note, but it gave her no more information than she'd already gleaned from the young knight and her lover. So she found parchment and pen and wrote a reply asking when they would have to leave, and whether the Prince had any suggestions regarding where they could go. Her maidservant agreed to deliver it to the man who kept the Water Gardens' ravens, and then Sansa was once again alone with Sandor and Ser Willem.

"There are many places you could hide, in Dorne," the handsome young knight reminded her. "Perhaps we could even return to Wyl..."

"No," Sansa insisted. "that is too close to Highgarden, and I wore out my welcome by visiting there in the first place. I will not bring danger upon any family of Dorne unless they are willing to receive it, and unless I have no other choice."

"You are most gracious, Lady Sansa, but Lord Wyl - "

"_No_," she insisted. "He has done what he could, and besides, it is time you returned home. I have kept you too long, and Sandor is more than capable of guarding me on his own."

It was clear that Ser Willem didn't like this suggestion, but Sansa would brook no argument. "I will go North, or I will leave Westeros. There is nothing else for it. Perhaps someday..." She trailed off, knowing that as much as she wanted to return to her true home, doing so might not ever be possible. "Go _home_, Ser Willem. Serve your lord, and perhaps someday I will have need of you again...should that day come, I promise that I will send for you. You are a good man, a good _knight._ You are brave and true, and it is likely that I will need men like you by my side...but now is not that time. The more people who travel with me, the more risk we run of being discovered." Of course she knew that Sandor was far more recognizable than Ser Willem, but she pushed that thought to the back of her mind and hoped that the young knight wouldn't remind her of it.

"My lady," Ser Willem acquiesced, giving a curt bow before excusing himself. Sansa nearly sighed in relief - it took everything in her to not do so. Finally she and Sandor were alone again, and she moved to shut the door to her chambers before anything else could interrupt them.

"We have exhausted all options. I cannot return to Winterfell, and I would never presume myself upon any other lord here in Dorne. What do we do now?" she mused, pacing back and forth across the floor in her concern.

"Take to the sea?" Sandor suggested quietly, after a long pause. Sansa caught his eye, clenching her jaw in frustration.

"That truly is all that's left to us, isn't it?" she asked hesitantly. He shrugged, then nodded.

"I'm certain that Doran Martell could find somewhere for us to be housed - "

"Yes, he could," she quickly agreed. "But I would want it to be by mine own terms, and I'm not certain that he will agree with them."

Sandor withdrew from her. "What are your terms?" he asked carefully.

"Before we leave this place, I must have my marriage to Tyrion annulled. I will not continue with that farce." Sansa wanted to say more, but she waited for Sandor to push for it.

"And once your marriage is annulled, if that is at all possible?"

"Then I must either leave this place with an escort. It is likely that Prince Doran will want me to have more than one guard, as well as a lady - or several ladies - in waiting, or a husband of mine own choosing." Sansa was firm in this, and when Sandor's eyes met hers she refused to look away.

"Little bird - "

"No," she insisted. "You can travel with me as my sworn shield, or as my husband. If you want me - _truly_ want me - it should be the latter. Do you not agree? Are you not tired of playing these games, of hoping that no one notices that we are more than just a young Lady and her protector? I _love_ you, Sandor, and you claim to feel the same way - is that not enough? With you as my husband I am no threat to anyone. I can return to the North - to Winterfell - years hence, when it is _safe_. And it will be safe, someday, if the rumors of this Targaryen woman and her dragons are true. With you by my side - "

"With _me_ by your side? As your _husband_? Sansa, you aren't thinking clearly - "

"I have mentioned this before. Of course I'm thinking clearly! If you do not want me for your wife - "

"Don't say that." Sandor's tone was cold. "If I could have you - "

"But you _can_. Isn't that enough?" Sansa insisted. She was tired of interrupting him, tired of him interrupting her. "Prince Doran needs us to leave, but if we leave together, it must be as husband and wife. Otherwise he will send others with us - Ser Willem, perhaps. Do you want that, truly? To spend the rest of our days together - how few or how many we have left - hiding our...relationship?"

_Please don't say yes_, she thought. _I'm not sure I could bear it..._

"Of course not," he finally replied. Sansa couldn't help but heave a sigh of relief. She stepped toward him and slid herself onto his lap, burying her face in his neck.

"I will await the Prince's reply, and as soon as it arrives I will ask after the septon and silent sisters, and see what can be done about proving my maidenhead and annulling my marriage. Prince Doran knows that I was wed to Tyrion under duress; surely he will agree that I must be freed from such a tie."

"He may not. And I can't imagine that he will agree to your marrying a man such as myself."

"Have faith, my love. That's all I am asking of you for now." She tried to keep from pleading, knowing that Sandor wouldn't want that from her.

"And I'm asking that you be realistic," he grumbled.

"I am doing my best," Sansa insisted. "There is quite a bit of logic to my...plan."

"You and I will have to agree to disagree on that point, little bird."

Sansa was about to continue arguing her point, but instead clenched her jaw and kept her mouth closed. _We have disagreed before,_ she reminded herself. "I suppose we will. And besides, one good thing has come of this news."

Sandor narrowed his eyes in something like suspicion. "And what's that?"

"Ser Willem has finally left us alone," Sansa pointed out, making herself smile and think of the good things that could come of their current situation.

"So he did," Sandor growled, the burnt corner of his mouth twitching - though Sansa was sure that just now it wasn't in anger as it so often used to be. He reached out and took hold of her arms, pulling her toward him. Even if she had wanted to resist, Sansa felt that she probably wouldn't have been able to do so - she could feel his strength, his need, and his desire as he covered her mouth with his own, and she yielded to him without a second thought.


	32. Sandor XVI

_How did I get dragged into this marriage discussion again?_

It wasn't that_, _given the chance, he would deny spending the rest of his life with Sansa Stark...it was simply that he couldn't let himself believe that such a thing was even possible. He'd once had hopes and dreams...but he'd been a mere stupid child, then - and Gregor had burned away his innocence over a fucking toy knight. Sandor had tried and tried to teach Sansa the ways of this world - the harsh, cruel, lying ways - and yet she insisted on continuing to believe that things would work out for the best.

And sometimes, Sandor admitted to himself, she made _him_ want to believe that, too.

So he took her into his arms and kissed her - because he wanted to, and because he knew that she wanted it as well. But rather than let their embrace proceed any further, Sandor eventually pulled away from her. "We should still be careful, little bird," he warned.

Sansa heaved a sigh. "I know. How long do you think it will take for Prince Doran to answer my note?"

Sandor shrugged. "If he's in a hurry, Sunspear is close enough for a raven to return by tomorrow..."

"That's what I thought..." Sansa replied hopefully. "Still, that gives us quite a bit of time together, doesn't it?" She tried to tuck herself against him, but again Sandor backed away.

"We need to prepare to leave, Sansa. And I wouldn't put it past Ser Willem to still be lurking around. You'd best start thinking about where you want to go from here. If Prince Doran's next letter arrives and I'm not around, you send someone to find me. Immediately."

"Do you really mean to leave me just now?" his little bird pouted.

"Aye," Sandor grunted. "If we're going to be traveling again, we need to be better prepared this time, don't you think?"

Sansa grimaced but nodded her agreement.

"Good. I'll find you tonight for the evening meal, I promise." _Guess that's the least I can do_. Sandor took her in his arms and kissed her again - a brief but passionate kiss. Before he could succumb to her - as he so often wanted to - he let go of her and mumbled a goodbye before summarily exiting her chambers. Once he'd shut the door behind him Sandor gave himself a moment to take a deep breath, wondering how in seven hells he'd forced himself to leave her there when what he really wanted was to -

_No. Don't even think like that._ Thinking led to imagining...which led to more wanting than he thought he was capable of handling just now. Instead Sandor decided to do exactly what he'd told Sansa he would do - start planning for their eventual departure. The servants at the Water Gardens had provided them with everything they needed while they were there, but when they left they would require more than sandsilk clothing and a few blankets. They would need better clothes, bedrolls, food, possibly water..._and wine. _This time, Sandor didn't want to forget the wine. He didn't drink as he had in King's Landing - didn't need to, now that he had his little bird - but he didn't want to have to give it up entirely for weeks on end again.

And anyway, the wine here was too good to pass up.

Unfortunately it would be hours before the kitchens were devoid of servants, but once they were he could ransack them for supplies. He wanted to trust that Doran Martell would provide for them, but if Myrcella was truly wounded so badly that she couldn't be moved right away...

It didn't bear thinking about. Myrcella and Tommen had been good children, and Sandor had almost been fond of them, in his own way. Myrcella especially, for she'd been quite good at standing up to Joffrey..._gods, I hope she's all right..._

Sandor shook his head to clear it. _Stop. Stop thinking about _her. _It's you that matters, and more than you, it's the little bird. Sansa Stark._

His little bird._ His_ Sansa Stark.

But that was a dangerous path to tread right now too, thinking about what could happen to them - _between_ them - once Sansa put her idea to the Prince of Dorne. Much as he didn't agree with it, Sandor could see that his little bird had set her mind to it, and she would do whatever she could to see it come to fruition. in some ways, No longer wed to Tyrion..._wanting_ to be wed to him, Sandor Clegane...it made little and less sense, but if she desired it, who was he to deny her?

That afternoon, Sandor did what he could to gather some supplies for their inevitable journey...but then he had to sup with Sansa - and Ser Willem, of course - and after that the young knight tailed him, asking question after question about their plans. Sandor grunted noncommittal answers, and was only able to shake the other man by claiming that he needed his rest and shutting himself up in his room. _So much for handling this without him_, Sandor mused, frustrated...and he wasn't surprised when Sansa showed up at his door early the next morning with a missive from Prince Doran in her hand and Ser Willem by her side.

"Mycella will arrive within the week. The Prince writes that she is out of danger at the moment, but too weak to travel. He believes that we would be safe at Yronwood or Godsgrace, as he trusts those Houses explicitly...though he admits that Godsgrace is geographically safer. He has also offered to send us to Essos, if we would prefer. There is more to_ that_, I believe, but I think he feared to put the rest to parchment."

"Smart man," Sandor said sarcastically. "He already revealed more than enough, naming Yronwood and Godsgrace."

"Which is exactly why I don't believe he wants me to go to either of those places," Sansa admitted. "I've already replied and told him that we would prefer to cross the Narrow Sea."

"Did you? And what else did you say to him?"

Sansa eyed Sandor reproachfully. "That is for my knowledge only," she replied, but Sandor knew at least the basics of what she must have written to Doran Martell - and knew that she didn't want Ser Willem to hear of it. _At least not yet. He sure as hells will find out eventually._

"So what now?" Sandor pressed.

"Now...we wait," Sansa grimaced.

But neither of them were prepared to wait as long as they did. The rest of that day passed, all of the next, and the one after that...and still no word from the Prince of Dorne. Sandor convinced Sansa to ready herself as much as she possibly could - to horde blankets and clothing rather than allow them to be taken away for washing, to set aside bits of food that wouldn't spoil quickly and even to hide a jug of wine now and again. After tucking away a third jug, Sansa refused to do so anymore. "They're going to think I'm a...a..."

"Drunkard?" Sandor chuckled. "I'm sure they'll put that off on me, little bird."

"Well, and I don't want them to do that, either!" she cried.

"I wouldn't worry about it," Sandor shrugged. "Not just now, anyway."

Sansa surprised him by agreeing. "You're right. I suppose I'm quite a bit more concerned about the fact that I have yet to receive a response from Prince Doran."

"Doran Martell is notoriously slow and thoughtful. I wouldn't worry about that, either." She didn't need to worry, because Sandor was doing enough of that for the both of them. It didn't help that Sansa still hadn't told him exactly what she'd written to the Prince of Dorne...had she already told him that she not only wanted her marriage annulled, but that she wanted to wed again so soon? And to a Clegane of all people, a member of a family the Martells hated as much or more than all of the Lannisters? _That would sure as hells be a good reason for him to not sent a fast reply_...

Four days after Sansa had sent her note to Doran Martell, Ser Willem came to find Sandor around midday. "I've had a message from the Prince. In early evening, when it begins to cool, we ride for Sunspear. The timing of our departure is such that we will not cross paths with the Princess Myrcella as she arrives here at the Water Gardens. We are to meet with Prince Doran at first light tomorrow morning."

"We'd best find the little - lady. Sansa." Sandor paused, hoping he had covered up his near-blunder. "She ought to know right away." Ser Willem nodded, and they set off toward Sansa's chambers together, Sandor wondering what Doran Martell meant by making them travel so late in the day, by giving them so little notice...

_And so it begins,_ Sandor brooded.

But the real question was when - or rather, _how_ - it would end...


	33. Sansa XVI

The words that she had written in her letter to Prince Doran ran through Sansa's head over and over again. She had been as vague and as careful as she could, but had it not been enough? Had she finally crossed a line with the Prince of Dorne, asking him to help her have her marriage annulled, admitting to him that she wanted to marry again? Of course she hadn't mentioned Sandor - she had known better than to do _that_ - but Sansa had made it clear that she thought it best if she was wed immediately, to someone of little or no standing, so that she would pose less of a threat to the other major houses of Westeros and therefore be in less danger herself. But if Doran Martell had finally decided that she wanted too much of him...

Sansa tried to push these thoughts from her mind, but still they kept her awake at night and distracted throughout the day as she awaited the Prince's response.

Other, darker thoughts came to her as well. Had Myrcella died from her wounds? Was Prince Doran dealing with that, and would the princess's death mean that Sansa could remain at the Water Gardens? _What a horrible thing to even think about_, Sansa berated herself. What had she become, that she could think of Myrcella dying in such a flippant manner? The young princess had always been a sweet girl, and as much a friend as Sansa could have hoped for when she had been a prisoner in King's Landing.

_But she's a Lannister_, a little voice reminded Sansa.

Of course, in the end news reached her that Myrcella was alive and well - or rather, as well as could be expected, having apparently suffered such grievous wounds. At first Sansa was surprised to see that Ser Willem had collected Sandor before bringing her Prince Doran's much-awaited reply - until she understood that they were to leave that very day, and that the note did not contain much else in the way of information. She and Sandor exchanged a concerned look, but they dared not speak in front of Ser Willem - not in any detail, at least.

"We must go, then," she finally stated. "I have a few things to pack, but that will take me next to no time at all. I suppose we are still not to be seen, so we should meet at the stables at our scheduled departure time." Sansa paused, wishing for a moment that she could ask Sandor to stay with her - under the guise of helping her, perhaps - but not knowing what Doran Martell had made of her note, or what he intended to say to her the following morning, gave her pause. She looked up at Sandor longingly, then excused herself.

The rest of the day fairly crawled by. Sansa didn't want to leave the Water Gardens - not really - yet at the same time she was anxious to meet with Prince Doran, to hear what he had to say...and to know whether or not he was going to help her.

Finally it was time for Sansa, Sandor, and Ser Willem to depart. They took their leave without fanfare; Sansa did not even get to say farewell to the maidservant who had been so helpful and kind during her weeks at the Water Gardens, but she supposed that it was all for the best. Still, she couldn't help but keep an eye out for the party that would be arriving with Myrcella, and was almost disappointed to not catch so much as a glimpse of them.

The sun was already dipping below the horizon when the Water Gardens disappeared behind them, and as evening waned into true night Sansa huddled beneath her layers of sandsilk robes, trying her best to keep from shivering.

"Fine time to be making us travel," Sandor growled.

"It's all right. I'm - "

"You're freezing." Sandor twitched Stranger's reins, and the stallion immediately came to a halt. Before Sansa could speak again, Sandor had dismounted, pulled her from her own horse, and set her in his saddle. Sandor swung up behind her and wrapped his arms about her. "Take hold of that animal," he ordered Ser Willem, jerking his head toward the prancing sand steed she'd been riding. The young knight eyed them for a moment, but soon did as he was told, and then they were off once again.

Now that she was sharing a mount with Sandor for the first time in what seemed like ages, Sansa realized how much she'd missed doing so. She leaned back against his warm bulk and sighed in relief, already quite a bit warmer than she had been. As she moved around, trying to make herself more comfortable, Sandor murmured, "Careful there, little bird." She smiled, but did as he'd bid her, knowing that this couldn't be _quite_ like their earlier travels together. _Not with Ser Willem present_. She wondered if Prince Doran would insist that the other man accompany them to Essos. He clearly trusted Ser Willem, and she saw no reason _not_ to do so - yet she yearned for those times when it had just been she and Sandor, and she knew that he didn't care for the handsome young knight. Would Doran Martell insist that Ser Willem be present when they talked of her future, in the morning? Sansa hoped not. Ser Willem had certainly distanced himself from her since their kiss, but she was certain that he would disagree with her plan to wed Sandor...and she couldn't bear the idea of Ser Willem trying to talk her out of it, when the Prince himself would certainly do so in that logical, thoughtful way of his.

Sansa reached out and curled her hand over Sandor's.

"Yes, little bird?" he asked, his voice low and hoarse.

"Sandor...you won't...argue...with the Prince, will you?"

"Argue about what, Sansa?" he replied carefully.

"You know what I refer to," she whispered. "It's just..." Sansa paused for a long moment, and caught herself chewing on her lip. Doing so reminded her of Arya, so she forced herself to stop and to speak again. "I am certain that convincing Prince Doran to do what I need him to do will not be easy, and...well...you will need to be...on your best behavior." She simply couldn't think of any other way to word it, though she knew that Sandor wouldn't appreciate being reminded of such a thing.

As if on cue, he grunted, "Best behavior? Am I a dog again, then?"

Sansa could tell by his tone that he was half annoyed and half japing. She gave the back of his hand a light slap. "Of course not. I merely want my meeting with the Prince to go as smoothly as possible."

"We've been lucky so far, little bird, but at some point that has to change."

"It already did once, for me," Sansa softly reminded him, remembering the weeks when he'd essentially ignored her and how difficult and lonely that time had been.

"I'll never live that one down, will I?" Sandor mumbled.

She couldn't help but chuckle. "I promise not to hold it against you. If anything it served to make me realize that I never want to lose you...else I may never have had the courage to request Prince Doran's help in...certain matters," she finished vaguely, noting that Ser Willem had turned to glance at them several times during their conversation. _Thank gods for the moon, or we would not be able to see a single thing_. That would have made this nighttime ride much more treacherous, Sansa knew - though she and Sandor had likely always been in just as much danger in their previous journey...

_I was so involved with the idea of having finally escaped King's Landing...so involved with _him_...that I rarely even considered how unsafe we truly must have been, _Sansa mused.

And what of her current concerns? Did they in fact stem from this ride through the dark desert, or were they due to not knowing what lay ahead for them in Sunspear, not knowing what Doran Martell would - or wouldn't - do for her? Again Sansa found herself pressing back into Sandor's chest, tucking her head under his chin but wishing that she could pull his face down to hers and kiss him.

_Not now_, she reminded herself. _Not now, but perhaps soon. Perhaps even as soon as tomorrow..._

"What are you doing, little bird?" Sandor suddenly growled. His question made Sansa realize that she was absentmindedly stroking his arm, and where her bottom was pressed against him she could feel that he'd grown hard.

"Sorry," she apologized, trying to keep herself from giggling. "I was...thinking."

"Not about anything ladylike, I'm guessing," Sandor retorted.

"No, not exactly," Sansa admitted, feeling her face go warm as she blushed. _But you're not some innocent young lady anymore, anyway..._

"Well, stop thinking whatever your thinking and _stop moving around_," Sandor insisted. Again he sounded more amused than anything, but despite the obvious mirth in his tone Sansa knew that she should do as he said. She sighed in frustration, and Sandor must have noticed - for he tightened his hold on her a nearly-imperceptible bit, as if to say, _We won't have to be so careful for much longer_.

Sansa could only hope that he was right.


	34. Sandor XVII

Obviously he hadn't been thinking when he insisted that Sansa ride with him. Having her share the saddle with him again brought back quite a few memories - memories that Sandor could almost call _fond_.

And it didn't help that she wouldn't stop wiggling around. Even the slightest movements that she made were close to torture for him right now, with Ser Willem's presence keeping Sandor from touching Sansa in the ways he wanted to.

_Which is probably all for the best_, Sandor told himself. What would happen if Doran Martell refused to help Sansa annul her marriage to Tyrion, yet sent them to Essos unchaperoned?

In a situation like that, how long would he be able to keep her safe...from himself?

The moon had risen high in the sky and begun to drift back down again before Sandor, Sansa, and Ser Willem finally made their way through the gates of Sunspear. Sansa sharing Sandor's saddle had been all for the best - she had begun drifting in and out of sleep nearly two hours before they reached their destination, a dangerous state in which to be riding alone. There were a few servants waiting to greet them, but Sandor brushed off their help, sliding down from Stranger's back and taking Sansa into his arms. "Just show me where she can sleep," he growled.

"Sandor?" Sansa murmured sleepily, squirming a bit in his arms.

"We've arrived at Sunspear," he told her. "Now go back to sleep. I'll see that you end up in a bed." She blinked up at him and gave him a small, knowing smile, but Sandor merely drew his brows together in response and looked to the servants again. "Well?" he prompted.

Finally one of them broke away from the group and scurried off. Sandor rolled his eyes and followed, and soon enough he was putting Sansa to bed in a small but comfortable room deep within the Martell stronghold. The servant lingered in the doorway as Sandor laid Sansa down and pulled a coverlet over her, and though he considered telling the little man to go away - to leave them - he knew that doing so wouldn't look good. Instead he herded the servant away from the door and shut it behind him. "I'm staying here. To watch over her," he clarified. "Send _Ser_ Willem to sit with me if you feel it necessary, but I'll not leave her unguarded."

The much smaller man opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again...but finally he nodded, and then turned and scampered back down the hallway. Sandor's lip curled in annoyance as he lowered himself to the floor and leaned his back against the door to Sansa's chamber, wondering if there was any way he would be able to fall asleep...or if sleeping would do him much good, considering the fact that Sansa would be roused to meet with Doran Martell in just a few hours.

Ser Willem arrived within half an hour. He nodded in greeting and leaned against the opposite wall of the passageway. Several minutes passed in silence, until finally Ser Willem said, "She's safe here, you know. She doesn't need you sitting outside her door like this."

"Don't assume that _you_ know what she needs," Sandor snarled.

"Fine. But Prince Doran has given you no reason to mistrust him."

"I suppose he hasn't. But my trust is hard won, and if I'm watching over her, I _know_ she's safe."

"Is she, though?" Ser Willem asked, his eyes glittering strangely in the low light of the flickering torches. Sandor glared at the younger man, and finally Ser Willem looked away, mumbling, "You should think about what's best for _her_."

"And you should think about keeping your buggering mouth shut," Sandor retorted. The handsome knight obeyed, but for Sandor the damage had already been done. He rested the back of his head against the door and closed his eyes, yet sleep would not come - not now that he couldn't stop thinking about Sansa's safety, and about what Ser Willem may or may not suspect in regards to her and Sandor's relationship.

_We'll know more after she meets with Doran Martell_, Sandor reminded himself...and with that last thought, he finally drifted into a restless sleep...

...only to be nudged awake what seemed like mere moments later. Sandor blinked slowly and looked up to see a white-haired man with broad shoulders towering over him. The man looked vaguely familiar - as did the huge longaxe that he carried. _The Prince's personal guard_, Sandor remembered, pushing himself to his feet as quickly and nimbly as possible, hand on the hilt of his sword.

"You will not be needing that," the older man said. "I have come to collect the girl for her meeting with the Prince."

"Fine then. But I'll be going as well," Sandor insisted.

The big man's gaze was unreadable; he merely shook his head from side to side. Sandor snorted his disagreement and turned to Sansa's door, rapping on it loud enough to wake her.

"Just...just a moment..." she called softly. He heard her moving about, and when she opened the door she was wrapped in the coverlet and blinking the sleep from her eyes. "Is it time?" she asked.

"Aye. This one says I'm not to go with you," Sandor told her, jerking his chin back to indicate Doran Martell's guard.

Sansa peered over Sandor's shoulder, then furrowed her brow at the other man. "Sandor Clegane is my sworn shield. I go nowhere without him. Surely _you_ understand that?"

"He may accompany you, but if the Prince does not wish him to stay, he must leave."

"We'll see about that," Sandor grumbled, but one look from the little bird kept him from saying any more.

"Come, then." The guard turned on his heel and strode back down the passage. Sansa let the coverlet fall to the floor and quickly straightened her rumpled gown before tucking her hand into Sandor's elbow.

Ser Willem struggled to his feet behind them, forgotten in their haste to follow the Prince's man. "I'll come as well."

Sansa's grip on Sandor's arm tightened almost imperceptibly. "As you will," she agreed, "but I must request that you not try to enter with Sandor and I. Apparently it will be trouble enough for me to keep my sworn shield by my side."

Sandor turned to glance at Ser Willem. The young man's jaw was working; clearly he had more to say...but Sandor turned around and pulled the little bird after Doran Martell's guard, not wanting to give Ser Willem a chance to argue his case.

They met in the same room as before, only this time the Prince of Dorne looked to be in even worse shape - his face more drawn, his eyes almost..._haunted_.

"Areo tells me that you wish for Sandor Clegane to be present for our talk," Doran Martell sighed once Sansa had greeted him with a low curtsy.

"I do. As I told your guard, he is my sworn shield...he is to remain by my side at all times."

"Or at least at all _waking_ moments," the Prince said shrewdly. _What does he know - or _think_ he knows?_ Sandor worried.

Sansa shrugged, clearly trying to appear nonchalant. "I wasn't aware that was a distinction I must make."

Doran Martell sighed. "Very well. Sandor Clegane may stay. Ser Willem, please wait outside. Areo, the door." The Prince of Dorne waited until the door was shut and barred behind Ser Willem before speaking again; meanwhile, Sandor stepped closer to Sansa, wanting the two men to understand that he would protect her at all costs. Prince Doran's eyes followed Sandor's movement, but Sandor met the Prince's gaze and refused to look away. Finally Doran Martell broke the silence by saying, "First and foremost, I must apologize for having to remove you from the Water Gardens. I assure you that I did not expect to have to do so this soon, or in this manner."

"You do not need to apologize," Sansa insisted. "You've done so much for me, when you could have done nothing. When you could have returned me to the Lannisters. I must ask, though...Myrcella...is she..."

The Prince waved her off. "The Princess Myrcella will heal...for the most part. I'm sure she would appreciate your concern, as she is a sweet girl, but we are not here to talk about her...and of course, I cannot relay your thoughtfulness to her, anyway."

"Of course," Sansa agreed, though Sandor noted that she sounded a bit sad. "And I suppose that we are not here to talk about Myrcella, in any case. You know that I have decided to sail to Essos, but much as I hate to inconvenience you even further, I need your assistance in another matter." Sandor couldn't help but feel proud of her; she kept her eyes fixed on Doran Martell as she spoke, didn't seem at all nervous, and didn't indicate Sandor - or his involvement in what she wanted - in any way.

"Yes...you mentioned that in your message. I did not think it prudent to reply in writing, and besides, I needed these past few days to consider your request. You ask quite a bit of me, you know."

"Is it truly so much more, so very different, from what you've given me already?" Sansa asked quietly.

"I think," the Prince said slowly, looking from Sansa to Sandor and then back again, "that depends on what you left_ out_ of your letter, more so than what you put_ into_ it."


	35. Sansa XVII

She felt herself locking her shoulders and her knees, hoping that doing so would keep her from visibly trembling. She had been so careful when writing her letter to Prince Doran...which meant that Ser Willem or someone else who had known that they were at the Water Gardens had told the Prince of Dorne something. The question was...how _much_ had he been told?

"I was completely honest about my still being a maiden," Sansa began slowly, "and I am willing to prove that in any way I can, if it means the annulment of my Lannister marriage. As it is, I was forced into that marriage, against my will. I never agreed to it."

"She refused to kneel, even, when it came time for the Imp to place his cloak of protection over her shoulders," Sandor informed Prince Doran. He sounded so proud, and there was so much affection in his tone that Sansa felt herself begin to blush.

"Sandor speaks the truth. Surely you understand my desire to no longer be connected to that family?" Sansa pressed.

Prince Doran closed his eyes for a moment, wincing as he shifted in his seat. "I do," he finally sighed.

Sansa grimaced. "And of course you have someone - or more than one person - in your service who could help me accomplish this, and who would know that it must be kept entirely secret?"

"Yes, of course. I have some small concerns about this matter, Lady Sansa, but I assure you that it was not the idea of helping you annul your marriage that has been keeping me awake at night. Any person of sound mind should understand why the Lannisters wed you to Tyrion, and I'm certain that I'm not the only one who would rather that marriage never...come to fruition, as they say."

"Well then, what's the problem with helping her?" Sandor spat. Sansa reached out and laid her hand on his arm, giving a jerk of her head to indicate that he shouldn't speak again. Surprisingly, he obeyed, even when the Prince sat silent and watched him for several long moments before continuing.

"I did not say there was a problem with helping her annul this Lannister marriage," Prince Doran clarified. "But I have questions regarding the other request you made, Lady Sansa. You want to marry again, and so soon...yet I cannot understand _why_ that is. You are quite young - too young to have been wed already, in my opinion - and you are beautiful as well. I do not mean to be so blunt as to be rude, but with Westeros at war and your home in ruins, would it not be best to sit back and see how things unfold before giving yourself to another?"

Sansa knew what she must ask, though part of her didn't want to do so - for could she truly know how the Prince of Dorne would respond? The answer was no, yet she knew that she didn't have a choice.

"Do you have a son to whom you'd like to see me wed, my Prince?"

Doran Martell closed his eyes for a long moment and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, he admitted, "No."

"Do you understand that so long as I remain unwed, the Lannisters and the Boltons and the Tyrells - and who knows who else - will seek to claim me for their own?" Sansa clenched her hands into fists. _He must see the truth_, she promised herself.

Again the Prince paused before finally replying, "Yes. And that is why I am so torn on this matter. I do not understand why you are so willing to swear yourself to another, and yet I know that there is truly no other choice."

"And you know that the best thing for yourself - and for me - is my marrying a man of little standing," Sansa reminded him. "It is the only way to insure that I will be less of a threat."

"Of course, Lady Sansa. And yet..._why_ you would want to do such a thing..."

This time, it was Sansa's turn to close her eyes and breathe deeply, hoping to calm herself before saying what she needed to say. "I...I want to be a player in the game, Prince Doran. But I also want to be deemed less important than I am just now. I don't want to be passed from one lord to another...I've had enough of that. I want to marry a man who can protect me. A man I love."

"You want to marry Sandor Clegane here." It wasn't a question, and Sansa could only do her best to not appear shocked at how certain Prince Doran was in regards to this fact.

"Yes. He would be my first choice," she replied carefully.

"I cannot allow it," Prince Doran admitted. But before Sansa could argue, he continued, "Yet at the same time, I will not prohibit it. I will help you annul your marriage to Tyrion Lannister, Lady Sansa, but what you do after that..."

For a moment Sansa thought to argue; she _needed_ his backing, needed a highborn witness...yet he had clearly thought this through, and if she knew anything about Doran Martell, it was that he would not change his mind.

"I understand," she sighed. "Assist me in ridding myself of this Lannister marriage, and all I will ask of you is that if I need to call on you in the future - to prove that I have wed Sandor Clegane of my own will - you will recall this conversation and help me in any way you can."

The Prince of Dorne gave her a sad smile. "I will do what I must." He turned and gestured to his guard, and that man opened a door on the other side of the solar. In marched a septon, a septa, and a silent sister. "I will leave you now," the Prince said. "For this is something I do not care to witness. When they are done, we will hopefully be able to proclaim that you were not only wed to Tyrion Lannister against your will, but that you are a maiden...and once this is done, a coded message will be sent to the High Septon. You must be on your way to Essos this very day, but I assure you that we will inform you of the High Septon's decision as soon as we receive it."

"The High Septon?" Sansa was aware that the pitch of her voice was much higher than usual. "What if he tells the Queen?"

Prince Doran grimaced. "Lady Sansa, I assure you that we would not appeal to him were it not necessary to do so. I must tell you that much has happened since you left King's Landing. My brother Oberyn fought for your husband's honor, against Gregor Clegane...and from what I am told, Oberyn is dead while Gregor lays dying from the poison in Oberyn's spear. The previous High Septon is dead as well, and a new one is soon to be appointed. If our sources are correct, I think that you will find this new High Septon to be quite sympathetic to your situation. Regardless, you will be well on your way to Essos - with no one having any knowledge of your having been here or where you are going - before our plea reaches him, and so I believe that we may continue to keep you safe." At this Prince Doran glanced at Sandor, but his eyes quickly left that man's face and returned to her own.

Sansa didn't quite know how to respond. "I suppose that I will have to trust you," she said slowly, and the Prince of Dorne merely nodded in reply. His guard grabbed hold of his chair and pulled him back through the door through which the septon, septa, and silent sister had entered, and then Sansa and Sandor were alone with the man and women who would help to prove that she was a maiden. "Do what you must," she allowed.

"This should not be painful ,but we cannot promise that it will not be uncomfortable," the septa droned.

"I understand," Sansa capitulated.

"I'm not certain you do," was the septa's cold reply. "He will have to leave."

Even if the woman hadn't pointed to Sandor, Sansa would have known who she meant. "No," she said, suddenly frightened. She _could_ do this without him...but whether or not she _wanted_ to was a different story.

"No choice," the septa insisted. Sansa turned to Sandor - the look on his face was murderous, but she attempted to calm him with a light touch on his arm.

"All right," Sansa agreed, albeit reluctantly. "Sandor, I'm certain this won't take but a moment. Please wait outside." _Please, please do, and please don't put up a fight..._

Sandor clearly didn't agree with her, but all the same he seemed to acknowledge the importance of the situation. "I'll be just on the other side of the door. If you need me, you call out my name."

Sansa gave him a weak smile, hoping that he understood it for what it was, that he knew that if she needed him she would call for his help at a moment's notice. Sandor backed away, keeping his eyes on her the entire time and only breaking their contact when he had to close the door behind himself. Once he was gone, she turned to face the septa. "I'm ready," she announced, hoping that she sounded far more sure of herself than she actually felt.


	36. Sandor XVIII

Once the door was shut behind him, a solid slab of wood between him and his little bird and keeping them apart, Sandor felt his separation from her acutely. He could only imagine what would happen to her now, as the septon and septa and silent sister worked to ensure that Sansa Stark was in fact still a maid.

_You damn well can't imagine what they'll do to her_, Sandor told himself. And he knew that he didn't want to imagine it, either - not when the very idea of her having to prove such a thing at all made him clench his fists and jaw in anger, made him want to break down that door and whisk her away from here, to take her to a place where she would never again be hurt or humiliated.

He began to pace back and forth in the passageway, attempting to ignore the fact that he had been relegated to about the same status as Ser Willem. The young knight was waiting in the passage as well, which in Sandor's opinion was nothing short of stupid. Surely Ser Willem understood that there wasn't anything here for him - surely he didn't think that Sansa still needed him? _If she ever did_, Sandor mused, his lip curling automatically at the realization that any use Ser Willem had once had was long expired. So why did he stick around? Was it due to some misguided sense of loyalty...or could it be that Ser Willem had his own agenda? The little bird swore that the knight had not touched her or spoken to her in any sort of questionable manner since kissing her that night just after they had arrived at the Water Gardens, and Sandor knew Sansa well enough to know that she was telling the truth...but as she had spurned Ser Willem's advance, Sandor could not come to terms with why the young man had yet to return to Wyl.

"I see you've been relegated to the same status as myself," the handsome knight suddenly said.

Sandor turned and glared at Ser Willem. The other man met his gaze without flinching, knowing that there was nothing Sandor could do to him just now - not in this passage in the middle of the Martell stronghold. "Bugger off," Sandor eventually mumbled, turning his back on Ser Willem and beginning to pace back and forth again.

"I just think it's worth noting that there will be times when you won't be allowed to stay by her side," the knight pointed out.

His words called Sandor to stop in his tracks yet again. "And I think it's worth noting that that's none of your fucking business." _I swear by the Seven, if he doesn't shut his mouth..._

But Ser Willem didn't speak again, and Sandor went back to his pacing. Though not more than half an hour could have passed, it seemed to him that it was much, much longer than that before the door finally opened and the septon gestured for Sandor to re-enter. The religious man was kindly looking enough, Sandor supposed, but when Ser Willem tried to follow Sandor into the room the septon merely shook his head. It was everything Sandor could do to keep himself from giving the young knight a smug smile - but in the back of his mind a little voice insisted that Sansa wouldn't want him to gloat. _Well aren't you just her dog, through and through_, Sandor thought, half berating himself and half amused at the idea that he was so thoroughly attached to her as to worry what she would think of his actions.

The septon closed the door behind himself, leaving Ser Willem on the other side of it. "You may fetch Prince Doran," he ordered the septa, who inclined her head in obeisance and left the chamber through the opposite door. Sandor turned in a circle, desperately seeking Sansa, wanting to know that she was all right. He finally spotted her sitting stiffly upright in a sumptuously upholstered chair against the far left wall of the room, and rushed to be by her side. Though her face was pale and her smile weak, when he crouched down and looked into her eyes he saw nothing in them to convince him that things had gone badly.

"You're - " he began, but the little bird reached out and gently placed her hand over his to keep him from saying any more.

"I'm fine," she murmured, "and we should be able to leave quite soon, so long as a ship is ready for us."

Sandor drew himself to his full height again and stood next to his little bird while they waited for Doran Martell to return. Several long minutes passed before the Prince of Dorne in his wheeled chair was pushed into the room by the big, quiet guard, but once the Prince was settled he smiled grimly at Sansa.

"Not that I doubted your word, Lady Sansa, but nonetheless I am relieved to hear that you truly are still a maid. I will dictate a letter for my maester to send to the High Septon this very afternoon - once I am certain that you and your sworn shield have boarded the boat I've had prepared for you and are well away from Sunspear, that is. The only person other than myself who knows where you are to go is the captain of that ship - I insisted that he not even inform his crew of your destination until you were well out at sea, and so that is when you will find out about it as well. I wish that I could handle this some other way, but until you have left Sunspear...well, the fewer people who know where you are going, the better."

"I understand," Sansa nodded, but it took every bit of self control that Sandor possessed to not ask what in the seven hells she was thinking. They were supposedly being sent to Essos, but they wouldn't know of their exact destination until they were far out to sea? What kind of an arrangement was that?

_And what if the _Prince_ actually intends to send us right back to King's Landing?_

Could this entire process of 'helping' Sansa annul her marriage actually be a ruse?

"As you will very likely soon be an unwed young lady of some standing, however, I cannot send you and Sandor Clegane here along on your own. The captain and men of this ship certainly would not suffice in keeping rumors at bay, should anyone hear of your situation...and though Ser Willem expressed interest in continuing to attend to you, Lady Sansa, I fear that it is past time he returned home to Wyl...unless of course you would insist that he continue to remain by your side."

"No, no, of course not," Sansa replied - almost too quickly, in Sandor's opinion. "Sandor is more than capable of protecting me on his own," she continued, slower this time. "And I do not want to keep Ser Willem away from his Lord any longer than I already have."

Doran Martell glanced at Sandor the same way he had several times earlier before saying, "Just as I expected. Besides, it is better for me to send another woman with you, and due to recent circumstances it seems that I am in abundance of women whom I need to send away from Sunspear. Of course...if I am to send you away with someone from my household, it must also be someone whom I trust...and there are unfortunately very few people who come to mind, just now." He heaved yet another sigh. "Thankfully, there is at least one woman in that select group, though some would deem her not worthy of being your companion. I have already informed her of the barest details of your situation, and though she has no true desire to leave Dorne, she has agreed to do so out of the kindness of her heart and her love for me." He paused and cocked his head as if remembering a specific conversation with this woman. "Admittedly, I think that she is quite curious about you, and that curiosity may have helped sway her as well."

Sandor's brows drew together as he tried to imagine who the Prince of Dorne could be speaking of. _He insists on our having to leave, forces a female _companion_ on the little bird, and admits that this woman is not worthy of being in Sansa Stark's presence?_

Was there no end to the strange ways of this House?


	37. Sansa XVIII

**I know there's been a bit of a delay in me getting this next chapter out - what with the holiday last week things have been a bit crazy :) I'm *thinking*, though, that after about two more chapters - three at the VERY most - this fic will fiiiiinally come to a close. And I'm hoping to have it done by the end of July ::fingers crossed::**

**That said, please note that the timing of certain events that transpire in this chapter is probably a bit...off. If it is, it's not by much, but after a lot of research I wrote this part of this AU as closely to canon as possible - and I mean that in the sense that I was trying my best not to mess any more with the "future canon" that already exists than I already have ;) I...think you'll see what I mean.**

**As always, thanks for reading and commenting, everyone :)**

* * *

><p>So she would have her annulment and her escape, but she and Sandor would still be watched over by someone of Prince Doran Martell's choosing. <em>Beggars can't be choosers<em>, Sansa told herself...but at the same time she couldn't deny how very much she wanted to be alone with Sandor.

"I will be glad to meet this woman who is so kind...and so curious," Sansa said carefully.

"Oh, but you've already met her," Prince Doran gave Sansa a small smile. "She is quite recently returned from King's Landing, and due to the current...circumstances...here in Dorne, much as I hate to do such a thing it is best if I send her away again. Ellaria?" he called softly.

Sansa's eyes went wide when the Prince said that name. So Ellaria Sand, Prince Oberyn's consort, was to be her companion? She remembered the woman, dark and beautiful and mysterious and so clearly in love with the now-dead younger Martell prince...but when Ellaria glided into the solar Sansa saw immediately that she was changed. There was a sadness about her face that hadn't been there before - but if there was anything that Sansa knew well, it was sadness. She approached Ellaria and dipped a quick curtsy before taking the older woman's hands in her own - something Sansa wouldn't have dared to do had Ellaria been trueborn, _but no matter_. "I am sorry for your loss - " here Sansa paused, unsure of what to call this woman who wasn't _truly_ a lady. Finally she decided to err on the side of caution. "Lady Ellaria," she finished.

Ellaria Sand smiled sadly, allowing Sansa to hold on to her hands for a long moment before withdrawing them. "Thank you, Lady Sansa. You may call me just Ellaria, I think."

Sansa couldn't help but feel a bit relieved. "Of course," she agreed. "As you wish."

"Ellaria and her young daughter Loreza will be accompanying you, then, if you have no objections," the Prince of Dorne said softly.

Though Sansa once again thought that she'd rather be alone with Sandor, she also understood that in this she did not have much choice - and that if she was to have a companion, better it be one like Ellaria, someone who was more...open-minded...than the usual high-born lady. "I have no objections," Sansa smiled. "In fact, I am quite happy to have this chance to get to know you better, Ellaria."

The beautiful woman inclined her head. "And I you, my lady."

"Please, call me Sansa," Sansa insisted, reaching for Ellaria's hands again and giving them a quick squeeze before releasing them. She then allowed herself to glance at Sandor, who was glowering and clearly refusing to look at any of them. Sansa knew that she should introduce him to Ellaria, but she wondered if perhaps it would be best to wait until they were on the ship and away from the confines and constrictions of the Martell household. She wondered if, at that point, she could admit to Ellaria what - _no, who_ - Sandor was to her, whereas here..._No matter what Prince Doran suspects, it would be foolish of me to confirm his suspicions, _Sansa knew.

"Then as there seem to be no issues with this arrangement, it is time for you to go to the docks," the Prince of Dorne announced. "Ellaria has already packed her things in hopes that you would agree to her accompanying you, knowing that it would be best for you to leave right away. Again, I regret that Dorne is no longer a safe place for you, Lady Sansa, but...well, perhaps it never was. Not really. It will be easier for you to hide in Essos, and then there will also be a sea between you and those who wish you ill."

"Of course," Sansa demurred. "But I have enjoyed my time here, my Prince, and I do very much wish that I could stay. Your hospitality and your loyalty to my cause will not be forgotten."

The Prince of Dorne sighed. "My dear, you are a breath of fresh air in these troublesome times, and I hope that you do not allow the world to change you for the worse."

She heard Sandor make a noise that could only be described as a growl. Sansa steeled her shoulders and replied, "I think I've managed to avoid that so far, despite...everything."

"Yes," Prince Doran agreed, "You have."

After a hearty Dornish breakfast - which was punctuated by Sandor's grumbling about there being spicy peppers in everything - they were whisked away to the docks. They traveled under cover, just as they had when they'd first arrived in Sunspear, and Sansa found herself wishing that at some point she would have been able to catch a glimpse of the city. _I've traveled from one end of Westeros to the other, and now I'm to cross the narrow sea,_ she thought, _when all that I really want is to go home._

Sansa heaved a sigh. She knew better than to let her mind wander down that road - it would be years before she could return to Winterfell, if she was ever able to do so at all. Instead she forced herself to focus on the fact that she was alone, blissfully alone, with Sandor as they traversed the city in the litter. She tucked herself against his body and murmured, "I hope you're not planning on ignoring me for this entire sea voyage, as you did on the last one."

He snorted. "I long ago passed the point of no return in this, little bird."

"I know." She couldn't help but smile. "But all the same, it's nice to hear you say it."

Before she knew it Sansa was being ushered out of the litter and rushed onto a ship, Sandor stalking along behind her. When she reached the deck and tried to turn around in hopes of catching a view of Sunspear, he laid a hand on the small of her back and shook his head, propelling her forward to where the captain was waiting. This man did not seem quite so friendly as Captain Marsh had been, but when he gave her nothing more than a gruff greeting and insisted that she remain in her cabin until they were well away from land, Sansa reminded herself that he was probably just acting on orders. "Will you accompany me, La - Ellaria?" she requested.

"I'm sorry, my dear, but no. The Prince wants it well known that I have left Sunspear, so I must stay on deck and hope that as many people as possible see me sailing away. I'm certain your sworn shield would not mind keeping you company while I am thus employed?" The smile on Ellaria's face was small but knowing. At first Sansa couldn't help but feel surprised, but then she realized that perhaps Prince Doran had more than one reason for sending Ellaria Sand - of all people - with her. _With us. _So she smiled back at her new companion before turning to Sandor.

Before Sansa could speak, he jerked his chin toward the captain and grunted, "Lead the way." She could see, though, that Sandor was pleased at this turn of events, and knowing this caused something in her tummy to flutter pleasantly. _Almost like a tiny little bird,_ she mused, stifling a giggle.

The cabin was larger than the one she'd had on Yavin Marsh's ship, and furnished a bit better as well. Sansa wondered how long the Prince of Dorne had been preparing things for this journey - possibly he'd begun to do so even before she'd told him that she would go to Essos - but she quickly pushed such thoughts out of her mind and instead surveyed her surroundings. There were two beds, one larger than the other, so she could only assume that Ellaria and Loreza were meant to share the cabin with her. This was a bit disappointing - _but not unrealistic_, Sansa told herself. At least it seemed that Ellaria would be more than willing to give Sansa and Sandor some time alone.

Sansa thanked the captain and promised to stay in the room until someone was sent to fetch her. He nodded brusquely and left she and Sandor to themselves. "Do you know how long the voyage will be?" Sansa asked.

Sandor shrugged. "Never been across the Narrow Sea. I'm guessing a month at least, maybe longer. Autumn storms..." his voice trailed off and the corner of his lip twitched, and Sansa knew that he'd stopped himself from saying any more, likely because he didn't want to worry her.

"I wish you'd stop doing that," she sighed.

"What?" Sandor said distractedly. "You should have asked that captain how long the damn voyage will be."

"That's not what I meant," Sansa insisted. "I speak of the fact that you are no longer so blunt with me as you once were. You used to tell me the truth, no matter what. Now it feels...it feels as if you're trying to protect me from harsh realities, all of the time. And that's not the man I fell in love with, Sandor."

He snorted. "So you want me to be...what was it you once called me? _Unkind_? Sure as hells would be easier than watching my mouth around you all the time."

"I'm certain that with just a tiny bit of effort, you can figure out how to tell me the truth without being mean." Even as she said this, though, Sansa wondered if such a thing really was possible. After all, Sandor had always seemed to go from one extreme to the other...

"But why should I?" he growled in response, taking one long step toward her and wrapping his large hands around her waist. "When you clearly seem to like it when I'm...mean?"

Sansa attempted to respond with a retort, but before she could speak Sandor covered her mouth with his own, kissing her in that fierce way of his that made her go weak in the knees.


	38. Sandor XIX

He'd been looking for an excuse to kiss the little bird - _my little bird_ - for what seemed like forever. They hadn't had a moment alone at Sunspear, and he'd known better than to do it in the litter on the way to the docks - there wouldn't have been enough _time_ for what could have - _would have_ - ensued. But now, thanks to the bastard-born lover of Oberyn Martell, Sandor and Sansa were alone in this cabin - alone, and with a door that they could actually_ lock_ behind them. _It's like to be hours before someone even _tries_ to disturb us,_ Sandor knew. It all seemed too good to be true, but for once he forced himself to forget all of that and take advantage of the situation. Sansa Stark was well on her way to having her marriage annulled, and surely that was something for them to celebrate.

As Sandor kissed her he slid his hands up her body until his thumbs and forefingers were tucked under her breasts. He ran his thumbs over her nipples, feeling them respond immediately to his touch thanks to the thin sandsilk of the gown she wore. Sansa pressed herself into his hands, and Sandor couldn't help but break their kiss and chuckle. He bent down and snarled, "I knew you liked it when I was mean," into her ear, biting at its lobe before running his lips back along her jawline to kiss her again. The look in her eyes was one of consternation, but Sansa didn't object to him clutching her body against his and backing toward the larger of the two beds. When the backs of his knees connected with the pallet he sat down heavily, pulling her into his lap. Sansa squirmed a bit, spreading her legs until she was straddling him, his cock pressed against her in a way that was like to drive both of them mad with desire.

She pulled away from him for a moment, her eyes heavy-lidded with passion and searching for his own. "We...we should still be..."

_Careful._ "I know, little bird," he admitted, though he hated to say as much and hated that he couldn't have her right now, that he hadn't yet been able to have her yet, that he didn't know _when_ he'd be able to_ truly_ have her... "But that doesn't mean we can't..."

Sansa smiled and leaned forward to kiss him, and when she did so Sandor laid back on the bed, dragging her with him, relishing the feel of her body stretched out on top of his. When she pulled away from his hold he grunted in frustration, but no sooner had he done so than Sansa was removing her loose, flowing gown and tossing it aside - and her perfection rendered him speechless. He reached for her, wanting more than anything to pull her against him, but then he stopped and instead gently ran his fingertips down her body, starting at her collarbone and slowly working his way over her breasts and the smooth, supple skin of her stomach. Sandor placed his palms on the tops of Sansa's thighs and spread his fingers, massaging her with them until she tipped her head back and let loose a quiet, _"Oh!"_

With that one small exclamation from her, Sandor could no longer hold himself back. He propped himself up on one elbow and wrapped his free arm around the back of her neck, bringing her head toward his and kissing her deeply as he rolled his hips beneath her. He felt more than heard Sansa's moan as she moved in kind, grasping at his shoulders and then his arms, trying to find purchase for her hands as she and Sandor kissed in an almost frantic manner. Finally Sandor steadied himself, wrapped his arms around Sansa, and pulled her down next to him on the bed. "How much time do you think we have?" he whispered hoarsely.

"Not enough," she teased, hitching her leg over his hip and pulling herself against him.

"Probably too much," he taunted in reply, unable to keep his mouth from twitching up into a smile. Sandor reached out and pushed a thick lock of hair away from Sansa's face, then kissed her again - gently, this time. "At least enough to take our time. For once."

"And if I don't want us to 'take our time'?" Sansa reached down between them and pressed her hand against his cock. Sandor had to take a deep breath before he could speak again.

"So eager," he mused aloud._ Almost _too_ much so, for me..._ She was a maid, it had been proven...surely that was enough? She wanted him, she _loved_ him, and gods be good, he loved her as well. He'd only told her so once and part of him wanted to tell her again, right now, but Sandor stopped himself. She knew how he felt, and if he said those words again - said them _now_, of all times - he understood that there would be no stopping what was bound to follow. Instead he pressed his cock into her palm and wrapped one long arm around her, caressing her arse as he moved his hand down and between her legs from behind. As always her desire was plain in the wetness of her folds, and after so much time with her he now parted them with ease, dipping a finger inside of her and nearly grinning as she shuddered against him.

Suddenly Sansa pulled away, and before Sandor understood what she was doing she had grabbed hold of his breeches and was attempting to divest him of them. "I want to feel you, _really_ feel you, it's been too long..." she breathed. Sandor thought about denying her, knowing that having no clothing between them was a dangerous thing - _but she wants it,_ he told himself, and that was all it took to convince him to give in. He rolled away from her just long enough to push, pull, and kick his breeches off, then he faced her again.

"Turn around," Sandor insisted. Sansa cocked her head, looking confused for a moment. "Go on," he told her. _Don't make me have to remind you that you can trust me..._

She obeyed, and Sandor pressed himself against her back, his rock-hard cock slipping easily between her legs and nestling against her cunt as if it belonged there. He used one hand to move her hair out of the way and tucked his face against her neck, breathing in her scent and nipping gently at her skin as he slowly moved his hips back and forth, back and forth, the friction of her wet folds and soft upper thighs making it almost seem as if he was truly inside her. He reached up and pinched one of her nipples between thumb and forefinger and relished in the way she sucked in her breath and began moving with him, slowly at first, and then faster, faster, as he increased the pressure on her nipple, twisting it ever so slightly, forgetting for a moment that he may be hurting her as he lost himself, "_Fuck_, Sansa, little bird, _gods_, Sansa, Sansa, San - "

His own climax cut him off just in time for her to grab hold of his wrist and say, perhaps a bit too loudly, "Harder!" Sandor instinctively knew what she meant and his fingers followed the motion of her hand, twisting so hard that he _knew_ he must be hurting her, but then it didn't matter as her entire body convulsed against his and she whimpered his name, "_Sandor_," so quietly that he almost didn't hear it. In response he released her nipple and moved his hand down to cup the small round curve of her lower belly, feeling the stickiness of Sansa's wet and his own seed between them. Sandor couldn't help but reach between her legs and spread the moisture amongst her folds and up the shaft of his cock. _I want her again, now,_ he realized, but he knew that trying anything like this a second time - so soon - wasn't safe. Whether or not they had the _time_ to do so was one thing...whether or not he could control himself...well, that was an issue as well. _A highly questionable one. _Sandor pulled his hand away and tucked it between her hip and the pallet below them, drawing Sansa as close to him as was physically possible.  
><em><br>_For now, he supposed, holding her would just have to do.

_Give her something, you fool,_ a voice inside of him said. "Little bird..." Sandor paused. Hadn't he just told himself that saying this was a bad idea? _You were in the heat of the moment. It can't hurt anything now._ "Sansa," he continued decisively, "I love you."

"Mmm," was her simple, mumbled response, and as her breathing slowed and it became clear that she had fallen asleep, Sandor wondered if she'd even heard him. _Seven hells, that just figures_.

He would have rolled his eyes, but sleep was overtaking him as well, so instead Sandor simply closed them and allowed himself to rest, truly rest, for what seemed the first time in a long time.


	39. Sansa XIX

The knock that woke them was a gentle one, the voice soft and full of understanding as it called out, "Lady Sansa? Sansa? We are well away from Sunspear now, and I'm certain you must be hungry for your evening meal."

Sandor had started beside her and was clearly about to leap out of the bed to put on his clothes before they could be caught in such a compromising situation, but Sansa laid a hand on his shoulder and smiled. "Thank you, Ellaria. I will be out in just a few minutes."

"Very good. Loreza and I will be waiting on the top deck. The sun is setting and the evening is quite beautiful."

Ellaria's steps quickly faded away, and as soon as Sandor relaxed under her touch Sansa withdrew, stretched languidly, and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. "I fear we've slept most of the day away," she murmured, blushing.

"We could find something productive to do with the rest of it, I'm sure," Sandor rasped, pulling her into his lap and kissing her. Sansa let him do so for several long moments - kissed him back quite readily, even - but finally she broke their embrace and stood up, swatting him on the chest as she did so.

"We can't spend all of our waking hours doing that. I believe that Ellaria is understanding, but I'm certain that we must draw _some_ lines," Sansa teased.

"Seven hells, just when I thought we'd have some freedom..." he growled - but at the same time, Sansa thought that he appeared at least a little bit relieved. She knew that he would never take advantage of her, but for her own part she wasn't sure if she could wait much longer to let him have her. _To have _him_ in return_, she mused, smiling. "What?" Sandor asked when he caught her looking at him.

"I feel...relaxed," Sansa admitted. _Finally_. Sandor merely grunted in response, but she took that as an agreement on his part and set about dressing herself. Soon enough they were up on the top deck and being greeted by the captain, Ellaria, and her pretty little daughter Loreza. The men working the rigging seemed intent on ignoring Sansa and Sandor, and for that she was grateful.

"Come," the captain said, leading them to a sheltered area where a young man awaited, a platter of olives, cheeses, flatbread, and chickpea paste in his hands. The captain waved at the food, inviting them to dine, and Sansa set upon it hungrily. Soon enough small skins of wine were passed around as well, and though the breeze grew chilly as the sun dipped below the horizon, Sansa couldn't help but wonder at the amazing shades of yellow, orange, and red that spread across the sky. "I would tell you where we are headed, now," the captain suddenly announced. Sansa, Ellaria, and Sandor's heads all snapped in his direction.

"Yes...please do," Sansa said slowly.

The captain nodded. "Prince Doran sent his son Quentyn to Essos, to meet with one Daenerys Targaryen."

Sansa couldn't help but feel surprised. There had been some small rumors of a Targaryen princess living in Essos and hatching baby dragons from eggs thought to be made of no more than stone, but for the Prince of Dorne to send his eldest son across the Narrow Sea in search of a mere rumor..._ No_, she realized. _It was all true._ She nodded, encouraging the captain to continue.

"The Prince has not heard from his son in quite some time, but we know that this so-called _Dragon Queen_ was last in the city of Meereen. We will head first for Volantis, to take on supplies and listen for more information. From there we will decide whether to sail around to Meereen or to take the overland journey instead. Neither way is particularly safe, mind you - "

"My life has not been truly safe since I left Winterfell," Sansa interrupted. "Thank you for this information, Captain."

The man seemed to want to say more, but Sansa met his gaze and refused to look away. Finally he nodded, bid them a good evening, and left Sansa, Sandor, Ellaria, and Loreza to themselves.

"You have a way with men," Ellaria murmured, a smile playing across her lips. "Though you would be wise to heed that one's counsel. If traveling to Meereen is as dangerous as he says, he may very well refuse to take you there by sea."

"I know," Sansa admitted. She shrugged. "And if he does refuse, there is likely nothing I can say that would change his mind. I will listen to his thoughts on this journey when we are closer to Volantis, but for now...well, to be honest, for now I would like a week or so of peace."

Ellaria gave her a look full of both understanding and sorrow. "I think you have earned that. I know I would like to feel some peace in my life, myself." Sansa opened her mouth to reply, then closed it again. Ellaria was gazing over Sansa's shoulder, her eyes seemingly focused on nothing in particular. _She must be thinking of Prince Oberyn_, Sansa understood - and she knew that there was nothing she could say just now to make Ellaria feel better. After several long moments of silence, the beautiful woman seemed to suddenly remember where she was and who she was with. "Your journey should be as comfortable as possible," she told Sansa, glancing at Sandor before continuing. "I believe they have assigned two cabins to us. Perhaps one is larger than the other, but either would sleep two people, I'm sure...and what you do in the seclusion of your own cabin is no business of mine, I think."

Though she immediately understood what Ellaria Sand was saying, Sansa was almost afraid to believe it. "Why...I would not want any...any issues...to arise..."

"You've not a thing to worry about, dear," Ellaria promised. "But if you'd rather not..."

Sansa looked to Sandor, who, obviously preferring to leave the decision up to her, merely shrugged in response. "No, I...why don't you and Loreza take the larger room. There are two beds, and with the rocking of the ship it may be more comfortable for you to sleep separately," Sansa finished lamely. An amused expression passed over Ellaria's face, but then she nodded in agreement and Sansa breathed a sigh of relief.

"At least for now, while it is just us, there does not have to be any pretense, Sansa," the older woman insisted. "Unless of course you want - or need - there to be. But...might I make a suggestion?"

"Please, do."

"We do not know what will happen when we reach Volantis, but it is very likely that eventually we will end up in the court of this so-called Dragon Queen. At that point...well, we must assume that we will have to once again do our best to abide by Westerosi standards, no matter that she was raised in Essos. It is because of this that I suggest you take advantage of what little freedom you have just now."

"I see. And...you are correct, I'm sure. I will do my best to not allow old ways to shackle me, at least while we are on this part of our voyage," Sansa promised. "But I must admit...I hold out hope for a message, a message that will tell me I am no longer the wife of Tyrion Lannister and that I may henceforth do as I please. And if that message arrives..."

"Then Daenerys Targaryen will have to accept whatever decision you make in regards to your own future," Ellaria finished.

The days that followed passed as blissfully as Sansa could have possibly imagined. At times they caught the edge of an autumn storm, but clearly nothing that the ship's captain and his men couldn't handle. When the weather cooperated, Sansa's days were spent enjoying the fresh air on the top deck with Ellaria and Loreza; when it didn't, they nestled down in Ellaria's cabin, telling stories and singing songs. All the while, Sandor watched over them - sometimes sharpening his sword, sometimes sipping from skin after skin of wine, sometimes just watching Sansa in a way that made her stomach flutter and her face go hot as she recalled the things they experienced together when they were alone at night in their own small cabin.

One clear - but cold - afternoon, Sansa was making her way back to her cabin from the top deck, hoping to warm up, when she heard a commotion from above. Fear gripped her for a moment, but she forced herself to tamp it down and make her way back outside to see what was going on. Sandor was close on her heels as always, but when they reached the deck and saw the raven perched on the ship's rail and the letter in the captain's hand they both stopped short.

There were very, very few reasons for a raven to find them this far out at sea, and only one of those reasons was a logical one.


	40. Sandor XX

**Sooo I was really hoping to finish this before the end of July. That's still a possibility, but it's a small one. However, I can promise you that there are only a couple chapters of this left (at most) and I'm working on them quite diligently :)**

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><p>Sansa reached behind her, and Sandor somehow knew what she needed. He took her hand in his and she led him toward the captain - or perhaps, rather, toward the letter that man held in his hand. Ellaria was standing close by with her little daughter, watching Sansa carefully as she and Sandor approached.<p>

_Am I ready for this?_ he asked himself. Truth be told, he didn't know. The only thing he _did_ understand was that no matter what this missive contained, it would cause some sort of uproar. _Can I stand it if the High Septon decided to refuse her annulment?_

And if the opposite happened - if Sansa _was_ granted that annulment - was Sandor prepared for what she would want from him?

_You're getting ahead of yourself._

Sansa was now standing next to the captain, who handed her the folded and wax-sealed parchment and stepped away. The raven that had brought the letter _quorked_ at Sansa, but somehow seemed to know that she was not the person in charge. The bird flapped off after the captain, and Sandor couldn't help but wonder if it was waiting for something in particular - a reward? An official dismissal? He shook his head, knowing that it didn't matter, and squeezed Sansa's hand in what he hoped felt, to her, like encouragement.

"You can read that down below. In private," he told her, but she shook her head.

"I don't even want to wait_ that _long," she whispered, her voice so low that he could barely hear her at all. Yet even as she said this, he saw that her face had gone pale and her hands were trembling as they clutched the letter that would determine much of her immediate future.

"Do you want me to do the honors?" Sandor asked gruffly

"No, I...I need to do it." Sansa heaved a sigh and slipped her finger under the wax seal, hastily unfolding the small piece of parchment. Sandor watched her eyes move from side to side as she read the brief note, and when her face blanched even more he pulled her toward him, tucking her under one arm as if he could have protected her from whatever the letter said. _Couldn't you have protected her, though? Somehow?_

"What does it say, little bird?" He hated to press her like this, but he wanted - _no, needed_ - to know.

"My marriage is annulled," she said softly, so softly that Sandor thought he must have heard her wrong. If her marriage to Tyrion was over, why did she seem so upset?

"Well...isn't that a good thing?" he pointed out. Sansa looked up at him, her eyes wide, their deep blue color stark against her pale skin.

"The High Septon agreed to annul my marriage, yes," she clarified. "But he also wishes that I return to King's Landing and make a claim for Winterfell. He promises that this is not a requirement of the annulment...that is already done...and he claims he has not told anyone of my location..." She trailed off, and Sandor could see that she was fighting with herself over this. _Still can't get over being the obedient, courteous lady._ He could barely keep himself from smirking.

"So you've got your annulment," he stated. When Sansa nodded in reply, Sandor continued, "Bugger the High Septon, then. If that piece of paper says you're no longer married to Tyrion Lannister, you've gotten all you need to from him. You'll have Winterfell again someday, but I wouldn't think there's anything he can do about that anyway, especially right now."

"I...I suppose you're right." The little bird looked so relieved that Sandor felt almost angry. Angry with the High Septon for suggesting such a fool thing, angry with Sansa having been raised to obey nearly blindly, angry with her for clearly having not quite learned her lesson yet in regards to that type of obedience. _It's going to take time,_ he reminded himself. _And you're more of a work in progress than she is, yet she puts up with you - _loves_ you - all the same._

Sandor clenched his jaw and kept his frustrations to himself.

"What will you do now, Sansa?" It was Ellaria who spoke, startling both Sandor and the little bird - he had forgotten that the woman was standing nearby, and clearly Sansa had done the same.

Sansa looked up at Sandor and smiled, appearing quite a bit more reassured than she had just a few moments ago. "Well, I won't be returning to King's Landing anytime soon, that's for sure," she announced. "Now that I think about it, what has the High Septon ever done for me? What have the Seven ever done for me? If I'm to do anything in the name of the gods, it will be the old gods. My father's gods. And...Prince Doran...he took me in, protected me at risk to himself and his family. Though he did not give me specific reasons for preferring that I travel to Essos of all places, I must assume that he has his reasons and that they are good ones. I certainly would not wish to do harm to him or to any cause that he may be championing."

Even Sandor could not miss the shrewd look that Sansa gave Ellaria, but the beautiful dark woman merely smiled and admitted, "The Prince did not give me any specific directives, either...at least, not outside of the request that I do my best to find myself at the destination that would be revealed to us by the captain. I believe he wanted me to end up there whether you did or not, but I must confess that I hope you still plan on making your way to the Dragon Queen's side."

"I have my concerns about doing so," Sansa said slowly. Sandor assumed that his own presence was one of those concerns, though of course her father _had_ rebelled against the Mad King..._and Daenerys is the Mad King's daughter._

"Just remember, you don't _have_ to do anything," Sandor pointed out.

"No, I do not...but I also don't want to remain exiled in Essos for the rest of my life. And I certainly don't want to _rule_...not anymore. If Daenerys Targaryen truly has dragons, and if she means to return to Westeros...then she has the ability to bring me with her. Though I assume I must offer her something in return..."

"Ah, but that is easy," Ellaria smiled. "You were raised to be a Westerosi lady, and you spent time at court. This Targaryen princess - or rather, Queen, if that's what others are styling her - has been in Essos all her life, with only her brother to guide her...and he has been dead for some time now. She may want to rule, and she may have some experience with doing so...but that experience comes from the other side of the world, and she will need to learn and understand Westerosi customs."

Sandor knew that the bastard woman had a point, yet all the same this talk of a Targaryen woman - and her dragons, _especially her dragons_ - left him with a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knew what his brother Gregor and his men had done to Elia Martell and her babes, and Elia had been this Daenerys girl's sister in law. Rhaenys and Aegon had been her niece and nephew. If she truly was a Dragon Queen, and if she - rightfully so - had no love for the Starks or the Cleganes...well, where did that leave him and the little bird?

Sansa suddenly laid her hand over his. "Are you all right?" she asked softly.

"S'pose so," Sandor grunted. "Just trying to figure out my place in all of this." It seemed the most appropriate - or perhaps simply the _easiest_ - thing to say.

"Your place?" Sansa seemed surprised. "Why, by my side, of course. My marriage to Tyrion Lannister has been annulled, and as you well know, I'm of a mind to wed again as soon as possible...rather than wait for someone else to swoop in and force me into some other situation of _their_ choosing."

"It's not going to be easy to get married in Volantis, if you mean to do it before you meet this Targaryen," Sandor insisted. "The second we step foot in that city and proclaim who we really are, no matter how quiet we try to be, someone will hear. I guarantee there's a price on our heads, and there ain't no dearth of sellswords in Essos."

Though her tone was innocent as could be, Sansa's expression was a sly one as she asked, "Volantis? Who said anything about waiting until we reached Volantis?"


	41. Sansa XX

**Well folks...this is finally, FINALLY, the end of it all...one last chapter and an epilogue! I said I would do my best to finish it by the end of July, and here it is, right at the wire ;) Thanks again to all those who have stuck with me in the year and a half that it took me to write this damn fic, thank you for the favorites and the follows and the bookmarks and the lovely reviews that at times were all that kept me coming back to it. I gotta be honest, this one was a bitch to write, I'm glad it's over, and though I have another multi-chapter fic to finish (Hand in Glove) I am going to give myself a bit of a break from writing for a while because this ending took a lot out of me ;) I hope y'all enjoy it!**

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><p>Truth be told, she was a bit surprised that Sandor had assumed that even if she received news of her annulment, they would still wait until they arrived in Essos to wed - but some part of Sansa desired to tease him over such an idea. "Do you have some attachment to Volantis?" she wondered, cocking her head.<p>

"Of course not," Sandor growled. He must have seen the corner of her lip twitch up into a smile because he made a scoffing sound and stated, "But you know that."

"Yes," Sansa admitted, "I do." He glared at her and she knew that the time for teasing was over. She turned to Ellaria. "The captain can marry us, can't he?"

"I would think so...of course it will not be a marriage in front of the gods, as there is no sept on the ship..."

"I care nothing for such things. Not any more. But...we will need cloaks..." _We will need something to make it seem like a proper Westerosi wedding_, Sansa knew.

"That can be arranged, I'm sure," Ellaria smiled. "While this ship does not have a large cargo hold, it certainly has some goods stored below. If you'd like, we can go speak with the captain now and see what we can find in the way of materials."

"Already?" Sandor blurted. Sansa's heart skipped a beat; could he not want to marry her, could he have changed his mind? She knew that they would have to talk about it - and soon, of course - but not with Ellaria here, not so soon after Sansa had finally received truly _good _news.

"You don't have to participate," she promised, forcing a smile. "I can let you know what I find later." For a moment Sandor looked relieved, but still it seemed that he was at least slightly panicked. Sansa brushed her fingers across the back of his hand as Ellaria led her away, wondering if there was any chance at all that he would be sober when she found him again in a little while.

Their search for items that could be pieced together into wedding cloaks was as successful as it could possibly be. The cloaks themselves would have to be made from extra sailcloth, but there were plenty of needles and thread aboard the ship, and besides, Sansa knew that the several days it would take her to embroider them would be good for Sandor.

She left the supplies for their cloaks with Ellaria in the larger cabin and went to find Sandor, who was sitting on the bed in their small room, his back against the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him, and - not surprisingly - a wineskin in his hand. "What, no cloaks?" he grunted.

"I found some things that will suffice for making them," Sansa clarified. "It will take a few days, and it's a bit cramped in here, so I left them with Ellaria. Of course..." She paused and drew a deep breath, almost scared to say what she knew _needed_ to be said. "Of course, if you would rather wait...or not do this at all...I can always put those supplies back where I found them." The last of the words seemed to tumble from her mouth, and when Sandor looked up at her, confusion plain on his face, she wondered for a moment whether he'd even understood her.

"Not do this at all? Of course I want to marry you, little bird. Didn't expect all of this to happen so fast, but I guess I'll get used to the idea damn quick." His mouth twitched in that way she'd long grown used to - but it was in amusement this time, rather than in anger or frustration. She couldn't help but smile in return as she rushed toward him and practically threw herself into his lap, kissing him without abandon. She couldn't help it, she was just so _happy_ - elated, even - and all she could think about was his lips on hers, his hands caressing her, their skin touching in any and every place possible. Sansa lost herself in their embrace, until she suddenly realized that she'd been tearing at his tunic and moving rhythmically in his lap and that he was actually trying to stop her, trying to push her away. She reluctantly obeyed, wondering what she could have possibly done wrong, her desire sending what felt like tendrils of fire through her entire body, from her very core to the tips of her fingers and toes. She was breathing heavily, her lips swollen and her eyes having trouble focusing.

"You sure you want to do this now, little bird?" Sandor said carefully. "Because if we keep this up, I cant promise that I'll be able to stop. Especially as you're no longer married and don't need to be proving your maidenhood again."

He was right, she knew. His words stung a bit; she wanted to believe that if she asked him to stop, he would. Still, something inside her whispered, _better to be safe than to be sorry._ "It _is_ just a few more days, after all..." she murmured.

"And we've waited this long, haven't we?" Sandor ran his large hands down her arms, his touch far more gentle than she would have thought possible. Sansa felt her skin tingling in their wake, and forced herself to slide away from his grasp and stand up. She decided that it was sweet, him offering to wait until they were wed - it was also, arguably, their best course of action. _Or rather,_ in_action_.

"Yes...we've waited this long," Sansa repeated. She tried to give him a reassuring smile, though she knew that he must want her as she wanted him, that it must be quite difficult for him to pretend that this wasn't the case - and she wondered just how quickly she could finish those cloaks.

Meanwhile Sansa spent her nights with Ellaria and Loreza. Ellaria raised her eyebrows questioningly on the first night, but when Sansa did not offer an explanation the beautiful woman seemed to know better than to ask for one. Sansa took her meals in that room, received Sandor in that room - always with Ellaria present - and worked from dawn until long after sundown to embroider their cloaks with direwolves and dogs. Perhaps it was the low light, or the lack of different colors of thread, or maybe it was simply all in her mind, but to Sansa her direwolves looked more like dogs and her dogs, more like direwolves. When she pointed this out to Ellaria, the woman merely smiled and said, "I'm not certain it matters. Your work is beautiful, regardless."

_Work._ That's certainly what it seemed like. Sansa almost couldn't believe that she'd once enjoyed needlework, for in the days it took her to finish the cloaks it seemed a special sort of torture. _I have no patience_, she realized when she was but halfway through the second day. _I have something better, something _more_, to look forward to, and I have no patience._ She suddenly understood why Arya had hated it so much when she'd had to sit still and work on her embroidery.

It was already well past midday on the third day of Sansa's cloak-making endeavor - the fourth since the raven had arrived carrying news of her annulment - when she knew that she was almost finished. "I have a bit more to do," she told Ellaria, "but please, if you would be so kind, ask the captain if he could wed us this evening. At sunset. I think that would be...nice."

"Yes," Ellaria agreed, "it will be. And Sandor, should I inform him as well?"

"Please," Sansa nodded. "It will be a stretch for me to finish in time, but..." _It must be tonight. I'm not sure if I can stand putting it off much longer._

"Of course, I understand." Ellaria smiled, inclined her head, then took Loreza by the hand and swept out the door, leaving Sansa with no choice but to bend over her work again. But being alone in the room - and the silence that ensued - made for the perfect environment. The light in the cabin had changed but not dimmed overmuch when Sansa was finally able to set aside her needle and take in the makeshift cloaks. Though the sailcloth was thicker and heavier and felt quite different from what a normal wedding cloak would be made of, she had begged some onionskins and saffron off the captain to make a yellow dye for Sandor's. It was paler than she'd like, but at least it differed from the bright white of her own cloak. She had then embroidered the three dogs of his sigil across the yellow cloak's back, though they were larger and more fierce-looking than she remembered from seeing the Clegane sigil about King's Landing. For her own cloak, she had left the back blank and embroidered her direwolves prancing about the edges in an almost playful manner that didn't quite become such an animal. She had wanted to fit quite a number of them around her cloak, and in doing so they had also become much smaller than they should have been. She scowled for a moment at her finished product, but then she remembered Ellaria's comment. _I'm not certain it matters_, the other woman had said - and the more Sansa looked at the cloaks, the more she wondered if something inside of her had caused her to picture the dogs and direwolves in this particular manner - certainly without meaning to, but not without having any meaning at all.

She shook her head to clear it, then took a few moments to freshen up. She found one of the gowns that Prince Doran had given her and donned it. It was no wedding gown, but at the moment it was the nicest piece of clothing that she had, and so it would have to do. Sansa gathered the cloaks in her arms and made her way out of the cabin, struggling with the heavy pile of sailcloth as she attempted to shut the door behind her.

"Here, let me help you." Ellaria was approaching down the narrow passage, and after shutting the cabin door for Sansa she pulled the yellow cloak from Sansa's arms. "I will deliver this to Sandor and return to tie yours on," she promised, and then she was gone. Sansa waited in the hall, feeling a bit queasy and telling herself that it was merely the rocking of the ship - though of course she knew better. It seemed forever before Ellaria returned, though it could not have been more than a minute or two. "He awaits you on the deck," the beautiful woman informed her as she draped the direwolf cloak about Sansa's shoulders.

"Did he seem pleased with his cloak?" Sansa asked, immediately embarrassed by the nervous tremor of her voice.

"I'm certain he is quite pleased with it, though just now he seems much more intent on your arrival." Ellaria smiled as she finished adjusting Sansa's wedding attire. "There. Shall we?"

The hour that followed seemed no more than a dream to Sansa. The ceremony was short and sweet, she and Sandor repeating the usual words after the captain. Her voice trembled the entire time; Sandor's started off as a mumble, but as he went on it became louder, more sure of itself, and put her own quiet tone to shame. When they had exchanged their cloaks and shared a brief, chaste kiss - somehow, anything more than that did not appeal, what with the captain and little Loreza and the sailors watching their every move - food and wine was passed around, though she and Sandor hardly touched either. She could tell that he couldn't take his eyes off her, and every time their gazes met it looked as if he was practically devouring her. That alone made the heat pool deep inside of her and build until she could hardly stand it any more. Sansa grabbed up two of the wineskins and then caught Ellaria's eye. The other woman smiled, nodded, and mouthed the word, "Go."

Sandor, who hadn't taken his eyes off Sansa for more than a moment here and there, saw the exchange and in the work of a moment had stepped close, laid a hand on the small of her back, and with just a bit of pressure there he guided her toward their little cabin below decks.

Once he had shut the door behind them, Sansa quickly sat down on the edge of the little bed and held one of the wineskins out to him. He took it and drank slowly; she followed his lead, though as they each sipped at the Dornish red they did not once take their eyes off each other. Suddenly Sandor snarled, "Enough of this." He grabbed her wineskin from her hand and practically threw it - and his own - then stalked toward Sansa, moving over her so that she was forced to bring her legs up onto the bed. He lowered his body down over hers until she laid back on the pallet. "Are you sure you want this, little bird?" he asked as he pressed himself into her thigh. She could feel his manhood hard against her; that warmth built up in her nether regions again and Sansa felt so _alive_ that she could hardly stand it.

"Yes," she breathed, and she knew that she'd never meant anything so much in her life. Sandor rolled his hips toward her and Sansa moaned, but he quickly silenced her with a kiss. It was very possibly the most gentle and yet insistent kiss that she had ever experienced, and her body rose to meet his as it had so often these past months. She felt him move one of his arms beneath her, and he fumbled with her laces for a moment before grunting in frustration. Sandor suddenly grabbed a handful of her gown in one hand and yanked, hard. Sansa heard a tear and he reached up, hastily pushing the gown off her shoulders and over her breasts. They spilled out, and the chill air - or perhaps her own desire - quckly caused her nipped to form into hard little buds. She gasped into his mouth and he suddenly broke their kiss. Even in the dim light of their little cabin, Sansa could see the outline of Sandor's heaving shoulders, could see his head move slightly as he looked down at her half-naked body, seeming to drink her in from head to toe. He took hold of one breast, cupping it in his calloused hand, squeezing it ever so gently before running the inside of his thumb over her nipple in a way that made her whole being pulse with desire.

His eyes met hers again. "I love you, Sansa," he said, his voice teeming with so many emotions that she could hardly place them all - there was love, of course; and something like _wonder,_ too, but for some reason, sadness as well. _I'll not think about that_, she told herself as he settled himself on his knees and began to untie his breeches.

"I love you, Sandor," she smiled.

He laughed, then; that rare soft laugh of his that she'd come to love so much, if only because she didn't seem to hear it quite often enough. "S'pose there really isn't any turning back for either of us, now."

"For as long as there's been an 'us', I don't recall a time when I ever _wanted_ to turn back," she assured him.

The corner of Sandor's lip twitched, and silence stretched between them for several moments - but finally he took hold of her hand and guided it toward him. Sansa gently pushed his breeches aside and grasped his manhood, releasing it from its confines. Sandor lowered himself over her again, taking a breast in his mouth and grazing his teeth over her skin as he flicked the tip of his tongue over her nipple. The sensation caused her to grip him even harder; in response he closed his mouth over her breast to suckle on her. And then his hand was between her legs, his fingertips gently trailing up her thigh, pushing her smallclothes aside to find her center, her folds wet with arousal.

Sansa cupped the tip of him with her hand, feeling the wet that was dripping from his manhood and smoothing it over him as she stroked, all the while gently pulling him closer to where he was meant to be. "Sandor..." she murmured, as that now-familiar pressure began to build inside of her. She didn't have to tell him that she was ready; her saying his name was enough.

"Little bird," he rasped in response, pulling his hand away, causing her to whimper with the need to have him touching her, always touching her...

But then she felt his manhood pressed against her opening. "Oh," she sighed, wrapping her arms around him and pressing their bodies close together. "Yes."

He entered her slowly, pushing just a bit before pausing, moving again, pausing again. It was as if he was reading her mind, though later she would realize that he was in fact reading her _body_, feeling her tense every time the pressure - _no, the pain_, she admitted to herself - got to be just a bit too much. It seemed like hours and she felt as if she was stretched to her breaking point before he finally stopped moving and she realized that he was entirely inside of her. Sansa was breathing in short, ragged gasps, and when she turned her head to look at Sandor she saw the pained look in his eyes.

"Gods help me, Sansa. I know I'm hurting you, but I still want you."

"It's all right," she heard herself say. "I knew that it would hurt. And it does. But I still want you, too." This wasn't a lie; it wasn't even an exaggeration. As the moments passed it seemed as if the pain was softening into more of an ache, and while she knew that it would hurt later, just now she was beginning to feel that if he did not start moving again she would be left with nothing but frustration.

So she did it for him, arching her back off the bed, wrapping one hand around the back of his neck and pulling his head toward hers, losing herself in a hard and lust-filled kiss as he bucked against her. She mimicked his movements, the friction of her skin against his making her feel as if her whole body was on fire. Sandor moved one arm beneath her, steadying himself and holding them together at the same time, while he slid the other hand between their bodies, pressing his thumb into that little nub of sensation between her folds, then flicking it. Press, flick, press, flick, all the while pushing into her. The thought crossed her mind that she felt full - but just as quickly Sansa abandoned it to the idea that really, she felt _whole._

Her release came on her quite suddenly, then; her body contracted around Sandor and then seemed to open up, open to every amazing sensation she had ever felt with this man, her lover, her _husband_. She gasped, surprised, as the waves of pleasure rolled over her again and again, only shuddering to a stop when Sandor himself let out an animalistic shout, his body going still above her as she felt his manhood pulse within her.

They both collapsed back onto the bed, Sandor rolling to the side to stretch out beside her and envelope her in his arms. Sansa knew that this moment could not last forever, but it was late in the day and they still had quite the journey ahead of them. Sandor's breathing was already slowing, becoming more rhythmic, and she herself felt sated and sleepy. She tucked herself against him and felt his body relax against hers. Soon he was snoring softly, and though Sansa tried to stay awake just a bit longer, wanting to relish this moment forever, eventually she drifted off into a heavy and dreamless sleep, a sleep the likes of which only Sandor and his presence had been able to give her for quite some time now.


	42. Epilogue

**SANDOR**

When he woke in the mornings these days, he was rested and even - dare he think it - something like _happy_. Nothing could have prepared him for this life, Sandor knew; he could only be glad that he'd fought against his own terrible instincts and stayed with his little bird.

Sometimes he cursed the seven buggering gods, though, for the infamy his actions had brought upon him. It seemed as if everyone knew their story now; how Joffrey had wanted his dog Sandor Clegane to spy on his uncle Tyrion and good-aunt Sansa...how instead, Sandor had fallen in love with the beautiful Stark girl and had whisked her away from King's Landing. The truth of their travels to Dorne, to Volantis, to Meereen, and eventually back to Westeros, seemed to be stretched more and more with every telling, and lately he tended to merely scoff at those who tried to praise him for standing up to the Dragon Queen, for somehow refusing to bow to her prejudices against his own family and that of his wife. Though no one else seemed to care, Sandor knew that the only reason Daenerys Targaryen hadn't had him killed was because she needed men of Westeros - _loyal_ men, as Sansa had pointed out - when she returned to take back her throne. He'd fought in her ranks alongside the likes of Barristan Selmy and Jorah Mormont, and endured not a few tongue-lashings from that damnable dwarf.

Those, at least, he could laugh at. Tyrion had lost Sansa, and Sandor had her now. Had her, and wasn't going to ever let go of her.

More oft than not, he believed that Sansa Stark - and the life they had somehow, against all odds, built together - were the only reasons he had kept his sanity for this long. And so he remained by her side, her loyal dog, though she never let him refer to himself as such.

**SANSA**

These days when she dreamt, it always seemed to be of the happiest days from her past. Snowball fights with her siblings at Winterfell, sitting in front of a mirror there while her mother lovingly brushed her hair...the first time she and Sandor had kissed, their wedding aboard the ship, the first time they had made love...her triumphant return to Winterfell to sit at her brother Rickon's side and help him rule the North...so many wonderful memories replaying themselves over and over again in her head.

And when Sansa awoke, Sandor was there. Perhaps not beside her, as he often rose with the dawn to practice swordplay in the yard - but always nearby. She'd feared for him when he was fighting for Daenerys Targaryen, though he'd promised that he would come home to her. "I won't give you up that easily, little bird," Sandor had said. "Either of you."

He'd made it back to her naught but a fortnight before she gave birth to their first child, a son who she named Eddard.

Sansa laid her palm on her growing belly. It was a girl this time, she was sure of it. _Catelyn_, she thought, and smiled.

She was free, free and _happy_, a wolf with a growing pack of her own. She knew herself, and she knew her husband, and there was no room for fear in this life that she was living.

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><p><strong>(For anyone who recently started reading this fic or has re-read the prologue and the first 7-8 chapters, you may have noticed a lot of echoes of Sansa and Sandor's first real time "together" in chapter 40, as well as a lot of echoes of the prologue in the epilogue...yes, that was very much on purpose ;) )<strong>

**And that's all she wrote! :D**


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